UC-NRLF 


952. 
K55 

ph.*. 


$B    ISb    111 

PHAETHON; 


OR, 


LOOSE  THOUGHTS  FOB.  LOOSE  THINKERS. 


REV.    OIIA^LES     KINGSLEY, 

CANON  OF   MIDDLKHAM, 
AND      R  E  0  T  0  R      OF     fc  V  E  R  S  t,  E  Y  . 


>-  C  H. 
•>n  fijug 


,  Ml'  '  •••'-em  liitiuf ;••!':  us 

>i>'jvc  '///'/c/  .1  :  r 

/  jierpe.rn-n  ;>i\>l<'lrr.'<juid  niai  iynwos 
uiim  paraloa  incolarum  aiiimos  hand 
'•  ?:i  "~.>uicio  declar a />•./"-  -"*  •  Ji/ro\. 


FROM    TKJ3    SETOXD    LONDON    EDITION. 


OP 


W  PHILADELPHIA: 

PUB!  ]  *'••  H E D    B Y     II  K R M  A X     HOOKER 
1854. 


PHAETHON; 


OR, 


LOOSE  THOUGHTS  FOR  LOOSE  THINKERS. 


REV.    CHARLES    KINGSLEY, 
n 

CANON  OF  MIDDLEHAM, 
AND     RECTOR     OF     EVERSLEY. 


"  WORDS  are  the  fool's  counters,  but  the  wise  man's  money" 

TRENCH. 

"  Rquidcm,  collabcnte  in  vitium  atque  errorem  loquendi  usu,  occasum  ejus 
urbis  remque  humilem  atque  obscuram  subsequi  crediderim :  verba  enim  par- 
tim  inscita  et  putida,  partim  m'ndosa  et  perperam  prolata,  quid  nisi  ignavos 
et  oscitantes  et  ad  servile  quidvis  jam  olim  paratos  incolarum  animos  hand 
levi  indicia  declarant?"— MILTON. 


FROM, THE    SECOND    LONDON   EDITION. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED    BY    HERMAN     HOOKER. 
1854. 


4**-, 

m 


/^ , 

^ 


PRINTED  BY  ISAAC  ASHMEAD. 


PHAETHON; 


OR, 

LOOSE  THOUGHTS  FOR  LOOSE  THINKERS. 


TEMPLETON  and  I  were  lounging  by  the  clear 
limestone  stream  which  crossed  his  park,  and 
wound  away  round  wooded  hills  toward  the 
distant  Severn.  A  lovelier  fishing  morning 
sportsmen  never  saw.  A  soft  grey  under-roof 
of  cloud  slid  on  before  a  soft  west  wind,  and 
here  and  there  a  stray  gleam  of  sunlight  shot 
into  the  vale  across  the  purple  mountain-tops, 
and  awoke  into  busy  life  the  denizens  of  the 
water,  already  quickened  by  the  mysterious 
electric  influences  of  the  last  night's  thunder- 
shower.  The  long-winged  cinnamon-flies  spun 
and  fluttered  over  the  pools;  the  sand-bees 
hummed  merrily  round  their  burrows  in  the 
marly  bank ;  and  delicate  iridescent  ephemerse 
rose  by  hundreds  from  the  depths,  and  dropping 

M185449 


4  PHAETHON. 

their  shells,  floated  away,  each  a  tiny  Venus 
Anadyomene,  down  the  glassy  ripples  of  the 
reaches.  Every  moment  a  heavy  splash  beneath 
some  overhanging  tuft  of  milfoil  or  water-hemlock 
proclaimed  the  death-doom  of  a  hapless  beetle 
who  had  dropped  into  the  stream  beneath ;  yet 
still  we  fished  and  fished,  and  caught  nothing, 
and  seemed  utterly  careless  about  catching  any- 
thing; till  the  old  keeper  who  followed  us, 
sighing  and  shrugging  his  shoulders,  broke  forth 
into  open  remonstrance  : — 

"Excuse  my  liberty,  gentlemen,  but  what 
ever  is  the  matter  with  you  and  master,  Sir  ? 
I  never  did  see  you  miss  so  many  honest  rises 
before." 

"  It  is  too  true,"  said  Templeton  to  me  with 
a  laugh.  "  I  must  confess,  I  have  been  dreaming 
instead  of  fishing  the  whole  morning.  But  what 
has  happened  to  you,  who  are  not  as  apt  as  I 
am  to  do  nothing  by  trying  to  do  two  things 
at  once  ?" 

"  My  hand  may  well  be  somewhat  unsteady ; 
for,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  sat  up  all  last  night 
writing." 

"  A  hopeful  preparation  for  a  day's  fishing  in 
limestone  water !  But  what  can  have  set  you  on 
writing  all  night,  after  so  busy  and  talkative  an 


PHAETHON.  O 

evening  as  the  last,  ending  too,  as  it  did,  some- 
where about  half-past  twelve  ?" 

"Perhaps  the  said  talkative  evening  itself; 
and  I  suspect,  if  you  will  confess  the  truth,  you 
will  say  that  your  morning's  meditations  are 
running  very  much  in  the  same  channel." 

"Lewis,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "go  up  to 
the  hall,  and  bring  some  luncheon  for  us  down 
to  the  lower  waterfall." 

"And  a  wheelbarrow  to  carry  home  the 
fish,  Sir?" 

"If  you  wish  to  warm  yourself,  certainly. 
And  now,  my  good  fellow,"  said  he,  as  the  old 
keeper  toddled  away  up  the  park,  "  I  will  open 
my  heart — a  process  for  which  I  have  but  few 
opportunities  here — to  an  old  college  friend.  I 
am  disturbed  and  saddened  by  last  night's  talk, 
and  by  last  night's  guest." 

"  By  the  American  professor  ?  How,  in  the 
name  of  English  exclusiveness,  did  such  a  ram- 
pantly heterodox  spiritual  guerilla  invade  the 
respectabilities  and  conservatisms  of  Hereford- 
shire ?" 

"  He  was  returning  from  a  tour  through  Wales, 
and  had  introductions  to  me  from  some  Man- 
chester friends  of  mine,  to  avail  himself  of 

1* 


b  PHAETHON. 

which,  I  found,  he  had  gone  some  thirty  miles 
out  of  his  way." 

"  Complimentary  to  you,  at  least." 

"  To  Lady  Jane,  I  suspect,  rather  than  to  me ; 
for  he  told  me  broadly  enough  that  all  the 
flattering  attentions  which  he  had  received  in 
Manchester — where,  you  know,  all  such  prophets 
are  welcomed  with  open  arms,  their  only  creden- 
tials, being  that,  whatsoever  they  believe,  they 
shall  not  believe  the  Bible — had  not  given  him 
the  pleasure  which  he  had  received  from  that 
one  introduction  to  what  he  called  'the  inner 
hearth-life  of  the  English  landed  aristocracy.' 
But  what  did  you  think  of  him  ?" 

"  Do  you  really  wish  to  know  ?" 

"I  do." 

"  Then,  honestly,  I  never  heard  so  much 
magniloquent  unwisdom  talked  in  the  same 
space  of  time.  It  was  the  sense  of  shame  for 
my  race  which  kept  me  silent  all  the  evening. 
I  could  not  trust  myself  to  argue  with  a  grey- 
haired  Saxon  man,  whose  fifty  years  of  life 
seemed  to  have  left  him  a  child,  in  all  but  the 
childlike  heart  which  alone  can  enter  into  the 
kingdom  of  heaven." 

"  You  are  severe,"  said  Templeton,  smilingly 


PHAETHON.  / 

though,  as  if  his  estimate  were  not  very  different 
from  mine. 

66  Can  one  help  being  severe  when  one  hears 
irreverence  poured  forth  from  reverend  lips  ?  I 
do  not  mean  merely  irreverence  for  the  Catholic 
Creeds ;  that  to  my  mind — God  forgive  me  if  I 
misjudge  him — seemed  to  me  only  one  fruit  of  a 
deep  root  of  irreverence  for  all  things  as  they 
are,  even  for  all  things  as  they  seem.  Did  you 
not  remark  the  audacious  contempt  for  all  ages 
but '  our  glorious  nineteenth  century/  and  the 
still  deeper  contempt  for  all  in  the  said  glorious 
time,  who  dared  to  believe  that  there  was  any 
ascertained  truth  independent  of  the  private 
fancy  and  opinion  of — for  I  am  afraid  it  came  to 
that — him,  Professor  Windrush,  and  his  circle 
of  elect  souls  ?  '  You  may  believe  nothing,  if 
you  like,  and  welcome ;  but  if  you  do  take  to 
that  unnecessary  act,  you  are  a  fool  if  you  be- 
lieve anything  but  what  I  believe ; — though  I 
do  not  choose  to  state  what  that  is.'  ....  Is 
not  that,  now,  a  pretty  fair  formulization  of  his 
doctrine  ?" 

"  But,  my  dear  rarer,"  said  Templeton,  laugh- 
ing, "the  man  believed  at  least  in  physical 
science.  I  am  sure  we  heard  enough  about  its 
triumphs." 


8  PHAETHON. 

"  It  may  be  so.  But  to  me  his  very  '  spirit- 
ualism' seemed  more  materialistic  than  his 
physics.  His  notion  seemed  to  be,  though 
Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  say  that  he  ever 
put  it  formally  before  himself " 

"  Or  anything  else,"  said  Templeton,  sotto  voce. 

" — that  it  is  the  spiritual  world  which  is 
governed  by  physical  laws,  and  the  physical  by 
spiritual  ones ;  that  while  men  and  women  are 
merely  the  puppets  of  cerebrations  and  men- 
tations, and  attractions  and  repulsions,  it  is  the 
trees,  and  stones,  and  gases,  who  have  the  wills 
and  the  energies,  and  the  faiths  and  the  virtues 
and  the  personalities." 

"  You  are  caricaturing." 

"  How  so  ?  How  can  I  judge  otherwise,  when 
I  hear  a  man  talking,  as  he  did,  of  God  in  terms 
which,  every  one  of  them,  involved  what  we  call 
the  essential  properties  of  matter — space,  time, 
passibility,  motion ;  setting  forth  phrenology  and 
mesmerism  as  the  great  organs  of  education, 
even  of  the  regeneration  of  mankind ;  apologizing 
for  the  earlier  ravings  of  the  Poughkeepsie  seer, 
and  considering  his  later  eclectico-pantheist 
farragos  as  great  utterances  :  while,  whenever  he 
talked  of  nature,  he  showed  the  most  credulous 
craving  after  everything  which  we,  the  country- 


PHAETHON.  9 

men  of  Bacon,  have  been  taught  to  consider  un- 
scientific— Homoeopathy,  Electro-biology,  Loves 
of  the  Plants  a  la  Darwin,  Vestiges  of  Creation, 
Vegetarianisms,  Teetotalisms — never  mind  what, 
provided  it  was  unaccredited  or  condemned  by 
regular  educated  men  of  science  ?" 

"  But  you  don't  mean  to  assert  that  there  is 
nothing  in  any  of  these  theories  ?" 

"  Of  course  not.  I  can  no  more  prove  a  uni- 
versal negative  about  them,  than  I  can  about  the 
existence  of  life  on  the  moon.  But  I  do  say 
that  this  contempt  for  that  which  has  been  al- 
ready discovered — this  carelessness  about  induc- 
tion from  the  normal  phenomena,  coupled  with 
this  hankering  after  theories  built  upon  excep- 
tionable ones — this  craving  for  <  signs  and  won- 
ders/ which  is  the  sure  accompaniment  of  a 
dying  faith  in  God,  and  in  nature  as  God's  work 
— are  symptoms  which  make  me  tremble  for  the 
fate  of  physical  as  well  as  of  spiritual  science, 
both  in  America  and  in  the  Americanists  here 
at  home.  As  the  Professor  talked  on,  I  could 
not  help  thinking  of  the  Neo-Platonists  of  Alex- 
andria, and  their  exactly  similar  course, — down- 
ward from  a  spiritualism  of  notions  and  emo- 
tions, which  in  every  term  confessed  its  own 
materialism,  to  the  fearful  discovery  that  con- 


10  PHAETHON. 

sciousness  does  not  reveal  God,  not  even  matter, 
but  only  its  own  existence;  and  then  onward, 
in  desperate  search  after  something  external 
wherein  to  trust,  toward  theurgic  fetish  worship, 
and  the  secret  virtues  of  gems  and  flowers  and 
stars ;  and,  last  of  all,  to  the  lowest  depth  of 
bowing  statues  and  winking  pictures.  The  sixth 
century  saw  that  career,  Templeton ;  the  nine- 
teenth may  see  it  re-enacted,  with  only  these 
differences,  that  the  nature-worship  which  seems 
coming  will  be  all  the  more  crushing  and  slavish, 
because  we  know  so  much  better  how  vast  and 
glorious  nature  is ;  and  that  the  superstitions 
will  be  more  clumsy  and  foolish  in  proportion  as 
our  Saxon  brain  is  less  acute  and  discursive,  and 
our  education  less  severely  scientific,  than  those 
of  the  old  Greeks." 

"  Silence,  raver !"  cried  Templeton,  throwing 
himself  on  the  grass  in  fits  of  laughter.  "  So 
the  Professor's  grandchildren  will  have  either 
turned  Papists,  or  be  bowing  down  before  rusty 
locomotives  and  broken  electric  telegraphs  ?  But, 
my  good  friend,  you  surely  do  not  take  Pro- 
fessor Windrush  for  a  fair  sample  of  the  great 
American  people  ?" 

"  God  forbid  that  so  unpractical  a  talker  should 
be  a  sample  of  the  most  practical  people  upon 


PHAETHON.  11 

earth.  The  Americans  have  their  engineers, 
their  geographers,  their  astronomers,  their  scien- 
tific chemists ;  few  indeed,  but  such  as  bid  fair 
to  rival  those  of  any  nation  upon  earth.  But 
these,  like  other  true  workers,  hold  their  tongues 
and  do  their  business." 

"  And  they  have  a  few  indigenous  authors  too : 
you  must  have  read  the  '  Biglow  Papers/  and 
the  '  Fable  for  Critics,' — and  last  but  not  least, 
6 Uncle  Tom's  Cabin?'" 

"  Yes ;  and  I  have  had  far  less  fear  for  Ame- 
ricans since  I  read  that  book ;  for  it  showed  me 
that  there  was  right  healthy  power,  artistic  as 
well  as  intellectual,  among  them  even  now, — 
ready,  when  their  present  borrowed  peacock's 
feathers  have  fallen  off,  to  come  forth  and  prove 
that  the  Yankee  Eagle  is  a  right  gallant  bird,  if 
he  will  but  trust  to  his  own  natural  plumage." 

"  And  they  have  a  few  statesmen  also." 

"  But  they  are  curt,  plain-spoken,  practical, — 
in  everything  antipodal  to  the  knot  of  hapless 
men,  who,  unable  from  some  defect  or  morbidity 
to  help  on  the  real  movement  of  their  nation, 
are  fain  to  get  their  bread  with  tongue  and  pen, 
by  retailing  to  '  silly  women,'  '  ever  learning 
and  never  coming  to  the  knowledge  of  the  truth/ 
second-hand  German  eclecticisms,  now  exploded 


12  PHAETHON. 

even  in  the  country  where  they  arose,  and  the 
very  froth  and  scum  of  the  Medea's  caldron,  in 
which  the  disjecta  membra  of  old  Calvinism  are 
pitiably  seething." 

"  Ah !  It  has  been  always  the  plan,  you  know, 
in  England,  as  well  as  in  America,  courteously 
to  avoid  taking  up  a  German  theory  till  the 
Germans  had  quite  done  with  it,  and  thrown  it 
away  for  something  new.  But  what  are  we  to 
say  of  those  who  are  trying  to  introduce  into 
England  these  very  Americanized  Germanisms, 
as  the  only  teaching  which  can  suit  the  needs  of 
the  old  world  ?" 

"We  will,  if  we  are  in  a  vulgar  humour, 
apply  to  them  a  certain  old  proverb  about  teach- 
ing one's  grandmother  a  certain  simple  operation 
on  the  egg  of  the  domestic  fowl ;  but  we  will  no 
less  take  shame  to  ourselves,  as  sons  of  Alma 
Mater,  that  such  nonsense  can  get  even  a  day's 
hearing,  either  among  the  daughters  of  Manches- 
ter manufacturers,  or  among  London  working 
men.  Had  we  taught  them  what  we  were  taught 
in  the  schools,  Templeton — " 

"  Alas,  my  friend,  we  must  ourselves  have 
learnt  it  first.  I  have  no  right  to  throw  stones 
at  the  poor  Professor;  for'I  could  not  answer 
him." 


PHAETHON.  13 

"  Bo  not  suppose  that  I  can  either.  All  I  say 
is, — mankind  has  not  lived  in  vain.  Least  of  all 
has  it  lived  in  vain  during  the  last  eighteen  hun- 
dred years.  It  has  gained  something  of  eternal 
truth  in  every  age,  and  that  which  it  has  gained 
is  as  fresh  and  young  now  as  ever ;  and  I  will 
not  throw  away  the  bird  in  the  hand,  for  any 
number  of  birds  in  the  bush." 

"  Especially  when  you  suspect  most  of  them 
to  be  only  wooden  pheasants,  set  up  to  delude 
poachers.  Well,  you  are  far  more  of  a  Philister 
and  a  Conservative  than  I  thought  you." 

"The  new  is  coming,  I  doubt  not;  but  it 
must  grow  organically  out  of  the  Old — not  root 
the  old  up,  and  stick  itself  full  grown  into  the 
place  thereof,  like  a  French  tree  of  liberty — 
sure  of  much  the  same  fate.  Other  foundation 
can  no  man  lay  than  that  which  is  laid  already, 
in  spiritual  things  or  in  physical;  as  the  Pro- 
fessor and  his  school  will  surely  find." 

"  You  recollect  to  whom  the  Bible  applies  that 
text?" 

« I  do." 

"  And  yet  you  say  you  cannot  answer  the 
Professor?" 

I  do  not  care  to  do  so.  There  are  certain 
root-truths  which  I  know,  because  they  have 
2 


14  PHAETHON. 

been  discovered  and  settled  for  ages ;  and  in- 
stead of  accepting  the  challenge  of  every  I-know- 
not-whom  to  re-examine  them,  and  begin  the 
world's  work  all  over  again,  I  will  test  his  theo- 
ries by  them ;  and  if  they  fail  to  coincide,  I  AN  ill 
hear  no  more  speech  about  the  details  of  the 
branches  and  flowers,  for  I  shall  know  the  root 
is  rotten." 

"  But  he,  too,  acknowledged  certain  of  those 
root-truths,"  said  Templeton,  who  seemed  to 
have  a  lingering  sympathy  with  my  victim ;  "  he 
insisted  most  strongly,  and  spoke,  you  will  not 
deny,  eloquently  and  nobly  on  the  Unity  of  the 
Deity." 

"  On  the  non-Trinity  of  it,  rather ;  for  I  will 
not  degrade  the  word  'Him/  by  applying  it 
here.  But,  tell  me  honestly — cest  le  timbre  qui 
fait  la  musique — did  his  *  Unity  of  the  Deity' 
sound  in  your  English  Bible-bred  heart  at  all 
like  that  ancient,  human,  personal  '  Hear,  0 
Israel !  the  Lord  thy  God  is  one  Lord  ?' " 

"Much  more  like  'The  Something  our  No- 
thing is  one  Something/ " 

"  May  we  not  suspect,  then,  that  his  notion 
of  the  'Unity  of  the  Deity'  does  not  quite 
coincide  with  the  foundation  already  laid,  whose- 
soever else  may  ?" 


PHAETHON.  15 

"  You  are  assuming  rather  hastily." 

"  Perhaps  I  may  prove  also,  some  day  or 
other.  Do  you  think,  moreover,  that  the  theory 
which  he  so  boldly  started,  when  his  nerves 
and  his  manners  were  relieved  from  the  un- 
wonted pressure  by  Lady  Jane  and  the  ladies 
going  up  stairs,  was  part  of  the  same  old 
foundation?" 

"Which,  then?" 

"That,  if  a  man  does  but  believe  a  thing, 
he  has  a  right  to  speak  it  and  act  on  it,  right 
or  wrong.  Have  you  forgotten  his  vindication 
of  your  friend,  the  radical  voter,  and  his  '  spirit 
of  truth?'" 

"  What,  the  worthy  who,  when  I  canvassed 
him  as  the  liberal  candidate  for  *  *  *  *,  and 
promised  to  support  complete  freedom  of  reli- 
gious opinion,  tested  me  by  breaking  out  into 
such  blasphemous  ribaldry  as  made  me  run  out 
of  the  house,  and  then  went  and  voted  against 
me  as  a  bigot  ?" 

"I  mean  him,  of  course.  The  Professor 
really  seemed  to  admire  the  man,  as  a  more 
brave  and  conscientious  hero  than  himself.  I 
am  not  squeamish,  as  you  know :  but  I  am 
afraid  that  I  was  quite  rude  to  him  when  he. 
went  as  far  as  that." 


16  PHAETHON. 

"  What, — when  you  told  him  that  you  thought 
that,  after  all,  the  old  theory  of  the  Divine 
Right  of  Kings  was  as  plausible  as  the  new 
theory  of  the  Divine  Right  of  Blasphemy? — 
My  dear  fellow,  do  not  fret  yourself  on  that 
point.  He  seemed  to  take  it  rather  as  a  com- 
pliment to  his  own  audacity,  and  whispered  to 
me  that '  The  Divine  Right  of  Blasphemy'  was 
an  expression  of  which  Theodore  Parker  him- 
self need  not  have  been  ashamed." 

"  He  was  pleased  to  be  complimentary.  But, 
tell  me,  what  was  it  in  his  oratory  which  has  so 
vexed  the  soul  of  the  country  squire  ?" 

"  That  very  argument  of  his,  among  many 
things.  I  saw,  or  rather  felt,  that  he  was 
wrong ;  and  yet,  as  I  have  said  already,  I  could 
not  answer  him;  and,  had  he  not  been  my 
guest,  should  have  got  thoroughly  cross  with 
him  as  a  pis  aller" 

"  I  saw  it.  But  my  friend,  used  we  not  to 
read  Plato  together,  and  enjoy  him  together,  in 
old  Cambridge  days  ?  Do  you  not  think  that 
Socrates  might  at  all  events  have  driven  the 
Professor  into  a  corner  ?" 

"He  might;  but  I  cannot.  Is  that,  then, 
what  you  were  writing  about  all  last  night  ?" 

"  It  was.     I  could  not  help,  when  I  went  out 


PHAETHON.  17 

on  the  terrace  to  smoke  my  last  cigar,  fancying 
to  myself  ^how  Socrates  might  have  seemed  to 
set  you,  and  the  Professor,  and  that  warm- 
hearted, right-headed,  wrong-tongued  High- 
Church  Curate,  all  together  by  the  ears,  and 
made  confusion  worse  confounded  for  the  time 
being,  and  yet  have  left  for  each  of  you  s^me 
hint  whereby  you  might  see  the  darling  truth, 
for  which  you  were  barking,  all  the  more  clearly 
in  the  light  of  the  one  which  you  were  howling 
down." 

"  And  so  you  sat  up,  and — I  thought  the  cor- 
ridor smelt  somewhat  of  smoke." 

"  Forgive,  and  I  will  confess.  I  wrote  a  dia- 
logue ; — and  here  it  is,  if  you  choose  to  hear  it. 
If  there  are  a  few  passages,  or  even  many,  which 
Plato  would  not  have  written,  you  will  consider 
my  age  and  inexperience,  and  forgive." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  forgot  that  I,  like  you, 
have  been  ten  years  away  from  dear  old  Alma- 
Mater,  Plato,  the  boats,  and  Potton  Wood.  My 
authorities  now  are  Morton  on  Soils,  and  Miles 
on  the  Horse's  Foot.  Read  on,  fearless  of  my 
criticisms.  Here  is  the  waterfall ;  we  will  settle 
ourselves  on  Jane's  favorite  seat.  You  shall 
discourse,  and  I,  till  Lewis  brings  the  luncheon, 
will  smoke  my  cigar ;  and  if  I  seem  to  be  look» 

2* 


18  PHAETHON. 

ing  at  the  mountain,  don't  fancy  that  I  am  only 
counting  how  many  young  grouse  those  heath- 
burning  worthies  will  have  left  me  by  the 
twelfth." 

So  we  sat  down,  and  I  began : — 


PHAETHON. 


ALCIBIADES  and  I  walked  into  the  Pnyx  early 
the  other  morning,  before  the  people  assembled. 
There  we  saw  Socrates  standing,  having  his  face 
turned  toward  the  rising  sun.  Approaching  him, 
we  perceived  that  he  was  praying ;  and  that  so 
ardently,  that  we  touched  him  on  the  shoulder 
before  he  became  aware  of  our  presence. 

"  You  seem  like  a  man  filled  with  the  God, 
Socrates,"  said  Alcibiades. 

"  Would  that  were  true,"  answered  he,  "  both 
of  me  and  of  all  who  will  counsel  here  this  day. 
In  fact,  I  was  praying  for  that  very  thing; 
namely,  that  they  might  have  light  to  see  the 
truth,  in  whatsoever  matter  might  be  discussed 
here." 

"  And  for  me  also  ?"  said  Alcibiades ; — "  but 
I  have  prepared  my  speech  already." 

"  And  for  you  also,  if  you  desire  it, — even 
though  some  of  your  periods  should  be  spoiled 
thereby.  But  why  are  you  both  here  so  early, 
before  any  business  is  stirring  ?" 


20  PHAETHON. 

"We  were  discussing,"  said  I,  "that  very 
thing  for  which  we  found  you  praying,  namely 
truth,  and  what  it  might  be." 

"  Perhaps  you  went  a  worse  way  toward  dis- 
covering it  than  I  did.  But  let  us  hear. 
Whence  did  the  discussion  arise  ?" 

"  From  something,"  said  Alcibiades,  "  which 
Protagoras  said  in  his  lecture  yesterday — How 
truth  was  what  each  man  troweth,  or  believeth, 
to  be  true.  ' So  that,'  he  said,  'one  thing  is  true 
to  me,  if  I  believe  it  true,  and  another  opposite 
thing  to  you,  if  you  believe  that  opposite.  For/ 
continued  he,  *  there  is  an  objective  and  a  sub- 
jective truth ;  the  former,  doubtless,  one  and 
absolute,  and  contained  in  the  nature  of  each 
thing ;  but  the  other  manifold  and  relative,  A  ;n  \  - 
inu  with  the  faculties  of  each  perceiver  thereof.' 
But  as  each  man's  faculties,  he  said,  were  dif- 
ferent from  his  neighbour's,  and  all  more  or  less 
imperfect,  it  was  impossible  that  the  absolute 
objective  truth  of  anything  could  be  seen  by  any 
mortal,  but  only  some  partial  approximation, 
and,  as  it  were,  sketch  of  it,  according  as  the 
object  was  represented  with  more  or  less  refrac- 
tion on  the  mirror  of  his  subjectivity.  And 
therefore,  as  the  true  inquirer  deals  only  with 
the  possible,  and  lets  the  impossible  go,  it  was 


PHAETHON.  21 

the  business  of  the  wise  man,  shunning  the 
search  after  absolute  truth  as  an  impious  attempt 
of  the  Titans  to  scale  Olympus,  to  busy  himself 
humbly  and  practically  with  subjective  truth, 
and  with  those  methods — rhetoric,  for  instance 
— by  which  he  can  make  the  subjective  opinions 
of  others,  either  similar  to  his  own,  or,  leaving 
them  as  they  are — for  it  may  be  very  often  un- 
necessary to  change  them, — useful  to  his  own 
ends." 

Then  Socrates,  laughing, — 

"  My  fine  fellow,  you  will  have  made  more 
than  one  oration  in  the  Pnyx  to-day.  And  in- 
deed, I  myself  felt  quite  exalted,  and  rapt  aloft, 
like  Bellerophon  on  Pegasus,  upon  the  eloquence 
of  Protagoras  and  you.  But  yet  forgive  me  this 
one  thing;  for  my  mother  bare  me,  as  you  know, 
a  man-midwife,  after  her  own  trade,  and  not  a 
sage." 

ALCIBIADES.     «  What  then  ?" 

SOCRATES.  "  This,  my  astonishing  friend — 
for  really  I  am  altogether  astonished  and  struck 
dumb,  as  I  always  am  whensoever  I  hear  a  bril- 
liant talker  like  you  discourse  concerning  objec- 
tivities and  subjectivities,  and  such  mysterious 
words ;  at  such'  moments  I  am  like  an  old  war- 
horse,  who,  though  he  will  rush  on  levelled 


22  PHAETHON. 

lances,  shudders  and  sweats  with  terror  at  a  boy 
rattling  pebbles  in  a  bladder;  and  I  feel  altogether 
dizzy,  and  dread  lest  I  should  suffer  some  such 
transformation  as  Scylla,  when  I  hear  awful 
words,  like  incantations,  pronounced  over  me,  of 
which  I,  being  no  sage,  understand  nothing. — 
But  tell  me  now,  Alcibiades ;  did  the  ppinion  of 
Protagoras  altogether  please  you  ?" 

A.  "Why  not?  Is  it  not  certain  that  two 
equally  honest  men  may  differ  in  their  opinions 
on  the  same  matter  ?" 

S.  "Undeniable." 

A.  • "  But  if  each  is  equally  sincere  in  speaking 
what  he  believes,  is  not  each  equally  moved  by 
the  spirit  of  truth  ?" 

S.  "  You  seem  to  have  been  lately  initiated, 
and  that  not  at  Eleusis  merely,  nor  in  the  Cabiria, 
but  rather  in  some  Persian  or  Babylonian  mys- 
teries, when  you  thus  discourse  of  spirits.  But 
you,  Phaethon,"  (turning  to  me,)  "  how  did  you 
like  the  periods  of  Protagoras  ?" 

"Do  not  ask  me,  Socrates,"  said  I,  "for  indeed 
we  have  fought  a  weary  battle  together  ever  since 
sundown  last  night ;  and  all  that  I  had  to  say  I 
learnt  from  you." 

S.  "  From  me,  my  good  fellow  ?" 

PHAETHON.     "  Yes,  indeed.    I  seemed  to  have 


PHAETHON.  23 

heard  from  you  that  truth  is  simply  6  facts  as  they 
are.'  But  when  I  urged  this  on  Alcibiades,  his 
arguments  seemed  superior  to  mine." 

A.  "But  I  have  been  telling  him,  drunk  and 
sober,  that  it  is  my  opinion  also  as  to  what  truth 
is.  Only  I,  with  Protagoras,  distinguish  between 
objective  fact  and  subjective  opinion." 

S.  "  Doing  rightly,  too,  fair  youth.  But  how 
comes  it  then  that  you  and  Phaethon  cannot 
agree  ?" 

"That,"  said  I,  "you  know  better  than  either 
of  us." 

"  You  seem  both  of  you,"  said  Socrates,  "  to 
be,  as  usual,  in  the  family  way.  Shall  I  exercise 
my  profession  on  you  ?" 

"  No,  by  Zeus  !"  answered  Alcibiades,  laugh- 
ing; "I  fear  thee,  thou  juggler,  lest  I  suffer  once 
again  the  same  fate  with  the  woman  in  the  myth, 
and  after  I  have  conceived  a  fair  man-child,  and, 
as  I  fancy,  brought  it  forth,  thou  hold  up  to  the 
people  some  dead  puppy,  or  log,  or  what  not,  and 
cry,  '  Look  what  Alcibiades  has  produced  !" 

S.  "But,  beautiful  youth,  before  I  can  do 
that,  you  will  have  spoken  your  oration  on  the 
bema,  and  all  the  people  will  be  ready  and  able 
to  say,  ' Absurd!  nothing  but  what  is  fair  can 
come  from  so  fair  a  body.'  Come,  let  us  con- 
sider the  question  together." 


24  PHAETHON. 

I  assented  willingly ;  and  Alcibiades,  mincing 
and  pouting,  after  his  fashion,  still  was  loth  to 
refuse. 

S.  "Let  us  see,  then.  Alcibiades  distin- 
guishes, he  says,  between  objective  fact  and 
subjective  opinion?" 

A.  "  Of  course  I  do." 

S.  "But  not,  I  presume,  between  objective 
truth,  and  subjective  truth,  whereof  Protagoras 
spoke  ?" 

A.  "  What  trap  are  you  laying  now  ?  I  dis- 
tinguish between  them  also,  of  course." 

S.  "  Tell  me,  then,  dear  youth,  of  your  indul- 
gence, what  they  are ;  for  I  am  shamefully  igno- 
rant on  the  matter." 

A.  "  Wh^,  do  they  not  call  a  thing  objectively 
true,  when  it  is  true  absolutely  in  itself;  but 
subjectively  true,  when  it  is  true  in  the  belief 
of  a  particular  person  ?" 

S.  " — Though  not  necessarily  true  objectively, 
that  is,  absolutely  and  in  itself?" 

A.  "No." 

S.  "  But  possibly  true  so  ?" 

A.  "Of course." 

S.  "  Now,  tell  me — a  thing  is  objectively  true, 
is  it  not,  when  it  is  a  fact  as  it  is  ?" 

A.  "Yes." 

S.  "  And  when  it  is  a  fact  as  it  is  not,  it  is 


PHAETHON.  25 

objectively  false ;  for  such  a  fact  would  not  be 
true  absolutely,  and  in  itself,  would  it  ?" 

A.  «  Of  course  not." 

S.  "  Such  a  fact  would  be,  therefore,  no  fact, 
and  nothing." 

A.  "Why  so?" 

S.  "  Because,  if  a  thing  exists,  it  can  only 
exist  as  it  is,  not  as  it  is  not ;  at  least,  my  opin- 
ion inclines  that  way." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  I ;  "  why  do  you  haggle 
so,  Alcibiades  ?" 

S.  "  Fair  and  softly,  Phaethon !  How  do  you 
know  that  he  is  not  fighting  for  wife  and  child, 
and  the  altars  of  his  gods  ?  But  if  he  will  agree 
with  you  and  me,  he  will  confess  that  a  thing 
which  is  objectively  false  does  not  exist  at  all, 
and  is  nothing." 

A.  "I  suppose  it  is  necessary  to  do  so.  But 
I  know  whither  you  are  struggling." 

S.  "  To  this,  dear  youth,  that,  therefore,  if  a 
thing  subjectively  true  be  also  objectively  false, 
it  does  not  exist,  and  is  nothing." 

"It  is  so,"  said  I. 

S.  "  Let  us,  then,  let  nothing  go  its  own  way, 

while  we  go  on  ours  with  that  which  is  only 

objectively  true,  lest  coming  to  a  river  over  which 

it  is  subjectively  true  to  us  that  there  is  a  bridge, 

3 


26  PHAETHON. 

and  trying  to  walk  over  that  work  of  our  own 
mind,  but  no  one's  hands,  the  bridge  prove  to 
be  objectively  false,  and  we,  walking  over  the 
bank  into  the  water,  be  set  free  from  that  which 
is  subjective  on  the  further  bank  of  Styx." 

Then  I,  laughing,  "  This  hardly  coincides, 
Alcibiades,  with  Protagoras's  opinion  that  sub- 
jective truth  was  alone  useful." 

"  But  rather  proves,"  said  Socrates,  "  that 
undiluted  draughts  of  it  are  of  a  hurtful  and 
poisonous  nature,  and  require  to  be  tempered 
with  somewhat  of  objective  truth,  before  it  is  safe 
to  use  them ; — at  least  in  the  case  of  bridges." 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you,"  interrupted  Alcibiades, 
"  how  the  old  deceiver  would  try  to  put  me  to 
bed  of  some  dead  puppy  or  log  ?  Or  do  you 
not  see  how,  in  order,  after  his  custom,  to  raise 
a  laugh  about  the  whole  question  by  vulgar 
examples,  he  is  blinking  what  he  knows  as  well 
as  I?" 

S.  "  What  then,  fair  youth  ?" 

A.  "  That  Protagoras  was  not  speaking  about 
bridges,  or  any  other  merely  physical  things,  on 
which  no  difference  of  opinion  need  occur,  be- 
cause every  one  can  satisfy  himself  by  simply 
using  his  senses;  but  concerning  moral  and 
intellectual  matters,  which  are  not  cognizable  by 


PHAETHON.  27 

the  senses,  and  therefore  permit,  without  blame, 
a  greater  diversity  of  opinion.  Error  on  such 
points,  he  told  us — on  the  subject  of  religion,  for 
example — was  both  pardonable  and  harmless; 
for  no  blame  could  be  imputed  to  the  man  who 
acted  faithfully  up  to  his  own  belief,  whatsoever 
that  might  be." 

S.  "  Bravely  spoken  of  him,  and  worthily  of 
a  free  state.  But  tell  me,  Alcibiades,  with  what 
matters  does  religion  deal  ?" 

A.  "With  the  Gods." 

S.  "  Then  it  is  not  hurtful  to  speak  false 
things  of  the  Gods  ?" 

A.  "  Not  unless  you  know  them  to  be  false." 

S.  "  But  answer  me  this,  Alcibiades.  If  you 
made  a  mistake  concerning  numbers,  as  that  twice 
two  made  five,  might  it  not  be  hurtful  to  you  ?" 

A.  "  Certainly ;  for  I  might  pay  away  five 
obols  instead  of  four." 

S.  "  And  so  be  punished,  not  by  any  anger 
of  two  and  two  against  you,  but  by  those  very 
necessary  laws  of  number,  which  you  had  mis- 
taken?" 

A.  «Tes." 

S.  "  Or  if  you  made  a  mistake  concerning 
music,  as  that  two  consecutive  notes  could  pro- 
duce harmony,  that  opinion  also,  if  you  acted 
upon  it,  would  be  hurtful  to  you  ?" 


28  PHAETHON. 

» 

A.  "  Certainly ;  for  I  should  make  a  discord, 
and  pain  my  own  ears,  and  my  hearers'." 

S.  "  And,  in  this  case  also,  be  punished,  not 
by  any  anger  of  the  lyre  against  you,  but  by 
those  very  necessary  laws  of  music  which  you 
had  mistaken  ?" 

A.  "Yes." 

S.  "  Or  if  you  mistook  concerning  a  brave 
man,  believing  him  to  be  a  coward,  might  not 
this  also  be  hurtful  to  you  ?  If,  for  instance, 
you  attacked  him  carelessly,  expecting  him  to 
run  away,  and  he  defended  himself  valiantly,  and 
conquered  you ;  or  if  you  neglected  to  call  for 
his  help  in  need,  expecting  him  falsely,  as  in  the 
former  case,  to  run  away;  would  not  such  a 
mistake  be  hurtful  to  you,  and  punish  you,  not 
by  any  anger  of  the  man  against  you,  but  by 
your  mistake  itself?" 

A.  "  It  is  evident." 

S.  "  We  may  assume,  then,  that  such  mistakes 
at  least  are  hurtful,  and  that  they  are  liable  to  be 
punished  by  the  very  laws  of  that  concerning 
which  we  mistake  ?" 

A.  "  We  may  so  assume." 

S.  "  Suppose,  then,  we  were  to  say,  '  What 
argument  is  this  of  yours,  Protagoras? — that 
concerning  lesser  things,  both  intellectual  and 
moral,  such  as  concerning  number,  music,  or 


PHAETHON.  29 

the  character  of  a  man,  mistakes  are  hurtful, 
and  liable  to  bring  punishment,  in  proportion 
to  our  need  of  using  those  things :  but  con- 
cerning the  Gods,  the  very  authors  and  law- 
givers of  number,  music,  human  character,  and 
all  other  things  whatsoever,  mistakes  are  of  no 
consequence,  nor  in  any  way  hurtful  to  man, 
who  stands  in  need  of  their  help,  not  only  in 
stress  of  battle,  once  or  twice  in  his  life,  as 
he  might  of  the  brave  man,  but  always  and 
in  all  things  both  outward  and  inward  ?  Does 
it  not  seem  strange  to  you,  for  it  does  to 
me,  that  to  make  mistakes  concerning  such 
beings  should  not  bring  an  altogether  infinite 
and  daily  punishment,  not  by  any  resentment  of 
theirs,  but,  as  in  the  case  of  music  or  numbers, 
by  the  very  fact  of  our  having  mistaken  the  laws 
of  their  being,  on  which  the  whole  universe 
depends! — What  do  you  suppose  Protagoras 
would  be  able  to  answer,  if  he  faced  the  question 
boldly  ?" 

A.  " I  cannot  tell." 

S.  "Nor  I  either.  Yet  one  thing  more  it 
may  be  worth  our  while  to  examine.  If  one 
should  mistake  concerning  God,  will  his  error 
be  one  of  excess,  or  defect?" 

A.  "How  can  I  tell?" 


30  PHAETHON. 

S.  "  Let  us  see.  Is  not  Zeus  more  perfect 
than  all  other  beings  ?" 

A.  "  Certainly,  if  it  be  true  that,  as  they  say, 
the  perfection  of  each  kind  of  being  is  derived 
from  Him ;  He  must  therefore  be  Himself  more 
perfect  than  any  one  of  those  perfections." 

S.  "  Well  argued.  Therefore,  if  He  conceived 
of  Himself,  his  conception  of  Himself  would  be 
more  perfect  than  that  of  any  man  concerning 
Him?" 

A.  "  Assuredly ;  if  He  have  that  faculty,  He 
must  needs  have  it  in  perfection." 

S.  "  Suppose,  then,  that  He  conceived  of  one 
of  his  own  properties,  such  as  his  justice ;  how 
large  would  that  perfect  conception  of  his  be  ?" 

A.  «  But  how  can  I  tell,  Socrates  ?" 

S.  "  My  good  friend,  would  it  not  be  exactly 
commensurate  with  that  justice  of  his  ?" 

A.  "How  then?" 

S.  Wherein  consists  the  perfection  of  any 
conception,  save  in  this,  that  it  be  the  exact 
copy  of  that  whereof  it  is  conceived,  and  neither 
greater  nor  less  ?" 

A.  "  I  see  now." 

S.  "  Without  the  Pythias  help,  I  should  say. 
But,  tell  me — We  agree  that  Zeus's  conception 
of  his  own  justice  will  be  exactly  commensurate 
with  his  justice  ?" 


PHAETHON.  31 

A.  "We  do." 

S.  "  But  man's  conception  thereof,  it  has  been 
agreed,  would  be  certainly  less  perfect  than 
Zeus's  ?" 

A.  "It  would." 

S.  "  Man,  then,  it  seems,  would  always  con- 
ceive God  to  be  less  just  than  God  conceives 
himself  to  be  ?" 

A.  "  He  would." 

S.  "  And  therefore  to  be  less  just,  according 
to  the  argument,  than  he  really  is?" 

A.  "True." 

S.  "  And  therefore  his  error  concerning  Zeus, 
would  be  in  this  case  an  error  of  defect  ?" 

A.  "It  would." 

S.  "And  so  on  of  each  of  his  other  proper- 
ties ?" 

A.  "  The  same  argument  would  likewise,  as 
far  as  I  can  see,  apply  to  them." 

S.  "  So  that,  on  the  whole,  man,  by  the 
unassisted  power  of  his  own  faculty,  will  always 
conceive  Zeus  to  be  less  just,  wise,  good,  and 
beautiful  than  He  is  ?" 

A.  "  It  seems  probable." 

S.  "  But  does  not  that  seem  to  you  hurtful  ?" 

A.  "Why  so?" 

S.  "As  if,  for  instance,  a  man  believing  that 


32  PHAETHON. 

Zeus  loves  him  less  than  He  really  does,  should 
become  superstitious  and  self-tormenting.  Or, 
believing  that  Zeus  will  guide  him  less  than  He 
really  will,  he  should  go  his  own  way  through 
life  without  looking  for  that  guidance :  or  if, 
believing  that  Zeus  cares  about  his  conquering 
his  passions  less  than  He  really  does,  he  should 
become  careless  and  despairing  in  the  struggle  : 
or  if,  believing  that  Zeus  is  less  interested  in  the 
welfare  of  mankind  than  He  really  is,  he  should 
himself  neglect  to  assist  them,  and  so  lose  the 
glory  of  being  called  a  benefactor  of  his  country  : 
would  not  all  these  mistakes  be  hurtful  ones  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  I :  but  Alcibiades  was  silent. 

S.  "And  would  not  these  mistakes,  by  the 
hypothesis,  themselves  punish  him  who  made 
them,  without  any  resentment  whatsoever,  or 
Nemesis  of  the  gods,  being  required  for  his 
chastisement  ?" 

"  It  seems  so,"  said  I. 

S.  "  But  can  we  say  of  such  mistakes,  and  of 
the  harm  which  may  accrue  from  them,  anything 
but  that  they  must  both  be  infinite ;  seeing  that 
they  are  mistakes  concerning  an  infinite  Being, 
and  his  infinite  properties,  on  every  one  of  which, 
and  on  all  together,  our  daily  existence  depends  ?" 

P.  "  It  seems  so." 


PHAETHON.  33 

S.  "  So  that,  until  such  a  man's  error  con- 
cerning Zeus,  the  source  of  all  things,  is  cleared 
up,  either  in  this  life  or  in  some  future  one,  we 
cannot  but  fear  for  him  infinite  confusion,  misery, 
and  harm,  in  all  matters  which  he  may  take  in 
hand  ?" 

Then  Alcibiades,  angrily, — "  What  ugly  mask 
is  this  you  have  put  on,  Socrates  ?  You  speak 
rather  like  a  priest  trying  to  frighten  rustics  into 
paying  their  first-fruits,  than  a  philosopher  in- 
quiring after  that  which  is  beautiful.  But  you 
shall  never  terrify  me  into  believing  that  it  is 
not  a  noble  thing  to  speak  out  whatsoever  a  man 
believes,  and  to  go  forward  boldly  in  the  spirit 
of  truth." 

S.  "  Feeling  first,  I  hope,  with  your  staff,  as 
would  be  but  reasonable  in  the  case  of  the  bridge, 
whether  your  belief  was  objectively  or  only  sub- 
jectively true,  lest  you  should  fall  through  your 
subjective  bridge  into  objective  water.  Never- 
theless, leaving  the  bridge  and  the  water,  let  us 
examine  a  little  what  this  said  spirit  of  truth 
may  be.  How  do  you  define  it  ?" 

A.  "  I  assert,  that  whosoever  says  honestly 
what  he  believes,  does  so  by  the  spirit  of  truth." 

S.  "  Then  if  Lyce,  patting  those  soft  cheeks 
of  yours,  were  to  say,  '  Alcibiades,  thou  art  the 


34  PHAETHON. 

N 

fairest  youth  in  Athens/  she  would  speak  by  the 
spirit  of  truth  ?" 

A.  «  They  say  so." 

S.  "  And  they  say  rightly.  But  if  Lyce,  as 
is  her  custom,  wished  by  so  saying  to  cheat  you 
into  believing  that  she  loved  you,  and  thereby 
to  wheedle  you  out  of  a  new  shawl,  she  would 
still  speak  by  the  spirit  of  truth  ?" 

A.  "  I  suppose  so." 

S.  "  But  if,  again,  she  said  the  same  thing  to 
Phaethon,  she  would  still  speak  by  the  spirit  of 
truth?" 

"  By  no  means,  Socrates,"  said  I,  laughing. 

S.  "  Be  silent,  fair  boy ;  you  are  out  of  court 
as  an  interested  party.  Alcibiades  shall  answer. 
If  Lyce,  being  really  mad  with  love,  like  Sappho, 
were  to  believe  Phaethon  to  be  fairer  than  you, 
and  say  so,  she  would  still  speak  by  the  spirit  of 
truth?" 

A.  "  I  suppose  so." 

S.  "Do  not  frown;  your  beauty  is  in  no 
question.  Only  she  would  then  be  saying  what 
is  not  true." 

"  I  must  answer  for  him  after  all,"  said  I. 

S.  "  Then  it  seems,  from  what  has  been 
agreed,  that  it  is  indifferent  to  the  spirit  of  truth, 
whether  it  speak  truth  or  not.  The  spirit  seems 


PHAETHON.  35 

to  be  of  an  enviable  serenity.  But  suppose  again, 
that  I  believed  that  Alcibiades  had  an  ulcer 
on  his  leg,  and  were  to  proclaim  the  same  now  to 
the  people,  when  they  come  into  the  Pnyx,  should 
I  not  be  speaking  by  the  spirit  of  truth  ?" 

A.  "  But  that  would  be  a  shameful  and  black- 
guardly action." 

S.  "Be  it  so.  It  seems,  therefore,  that  it 
is  indifferent  to  the  spirit  of  truth  whether  that 
which  it  affirms  be  honorable  or  blackguardly. 
Is  it  not  so  ?" 

A.  "  It  seems  so,  most  certainly,  in  that  case 
at  least." 

S.  "  And  in  others,  as  I  think.  But  tell  me 
— Is  not  the  man  who  does  what  he  believes,  as 
much  moved  by  this  your  spirit  of  truth  as  he 
who  says  what  he  believes  ?" 

A.  «  Certainly  he  is." 

S.  "  Then,  if  I  believed  it  right  to  lie  or  steal, 
I,  in  lying  or  stealing,  should  lie  or  steal  by  the 
spirit  of  truth  ?" 

A.  "  Certainly  :  but  that  is  impossible." 

S.  "  My  fine  fellow,  and  wherefore  ?  I  have 
heard  of  a  nation  among  the  Indians,  who  hold 
it  a  sacred  duty  to  murder  every  one,  not  of 
their  own  tribe,  whom  they  can  waylay ;  and 
when  they  are  taken  and  punished  by  the  rulers 


36  PHAETHON. 

of  that  country,  die  joyfully  under  the  greatest 
torments,  believing  themselves  certain  of  an 
entrance  into  the  Elysian  Fields,  in  proportion 
to  the  number  of  murders  which  they  have  com- 
mitted." 

A.  "  They  must  be  impious  wretches." 

S.  "  Be  it  so.  But  believing  themselves  to 
be  right,  they  commit  murder  by  the  spirit  of 
truth." 

A.  "  It  seems  to  follow  from  the  argument." 

S.  "  Then  it  is  indifferent  to  the  spirit  of 
truth,  whether  the  action  which  it  prompts  be 
right  or  wrong?" 

A.  "  It  must  be  confessed." 

S.  "  It  is  therefore  not  a  moral  faculty,  this 
spirit  of  truth.  Let  us  see  now  whether  it  be 
an  intellectual  one.  How  are  intellectual  things 
defined,  Phaethon  ?  Tell  me,  for  you  are  cun- 
ning in  such  matters." 

P.  "  Those  things  which  have  to  do  with  pro- 
cesses of  the  mind." 

S.  "  With  right  processes,  or  with  wrong  ?" 

P.  «  With  right,  of  course." 

S.  "  And  processes  for  what  purpose  ?" 

P.  "  For  the  discovery  of  facts." 

S.  "  Of  facts  as  they  are,  or  as  they  are  not  ?" 

P.  "As  they  are." 

S.  "  And  he  who  discovers  facts  as  they  are, 


PHAETHON.  37 

discovers  truth ;  while  he  who  discovers  facts  as 
they  are  not,  discovers  falsehood  ?" 

P.  "  He  discovers  nothing,  Socrates." 

S.  "  True ;  but  it  has  been  agreed  already 
that  the  spirit  of  truth  is  indifferent  to  the 
question  whether  facts  be  true  or  false,  but  only 
concerns  itself  with  the  sincere  affirmation  of 
them,  whatsoever  they  may  be.  Much  more 
then  must  it  be  indifferent  to  those  processes  by 
which  they  are  discovered." 

P.  «  How  so  ?" 

S.  "  Because  it  only  concerns  itself  with  affir- 
mation concerning  facts;  but  these  processes 
are  anterior  to  that  affirmation." 

P.  "  I  comprehend." 

S.  "And  much  more  is  it  indifferent  to 
whether  those  are  right  processes  or  not." 

P.  "  Much  more  so." 

S.  "It  is  therefore  not  intellectual.  It  re- 
mains, therefore,  that  it  must  be  some  merely 
physical  faculty,  like  that  of  fearing,  hungering, 
or  enjoying  the  sexual  appetite." 

A.  "  Absurd,  Socrates  !" 

S.  "  That  is  the  argument's  concern,  not 
ours :  let  us  follow  manfully  withersoever  it 
may  lead  us." 

A.  "  Lead  on,  thou  sophist !" 
4 


38  PIIAETHON. 

S.  "  It  was  agreed,  then,  that  he  who  does 
what  he  thinks  right,  does  so  by  the  spirit  of 
truth — was  it  not  ?" 

A.  "It  was." 

S.  "  Then  he  who  eats  when  he  thinks  that 
he  ought  to  eat,  does  so  by  the  spirit  of  truth?" 

A.  "What  next?" 

S:  "  This  next,  that  he  who  blows  his  nose 
when  he  thinks  that  it  wants  blowing,  blows  his 
nose  by  the  spirit  of  truth." 

A.  "What  next?" 

S.  "Do  not  frown,  friend.  Believe  me,  in 
such  days  as  these,  I  honor  even  the  man  who 
is  honest  enough  to  blow  his  nose  because  he 
finds  that  he  ought  to  do  so.  But  tell  me, — a 
horse,  when  he  shies  at  a  beggar,  does  not  he 
also  do  so  by  the  spirit  of  truth?  For  he 
believes  sincerely  the  beggar  to  be  something 
formidable,  and  honestly  acts  upon  his  convic- 
tion." 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  said  I,  laughing,  in  spite 
of  myself,  at  Alcibiades's  countenance. 

"  S.  It  is  in  danger,  then,  of  proving  to  be  some- 
thing quite  brutish  and  doggish,  this  spirit  of 
truth.  I  should  not  wonder,  therefore,  if  we 
found  it  proper  to  be  restrained." 

A.  "  How  so,  thou  hair-splitter  ?" 


PHAETHON.  39 

S.  "  Have  we  not  proved  it  to  be  common  to 
man  and  animals :  but  are  not  those  passions 
which  we  have  in  common  with  animals  to  be 
restrained  ?" 

P.  "  Restrain  the  spirit  of  truth,  Socrates  ?" 

S.  "  If  it  be  doggishly  inclined.  As,  for  in- 
stance, if  a  man  knew  that  his  father  had  com- 
mitted a  shameful  act,  and  were  to  publish  it, 
he  would  do  so  by  the  spirit  of  truth.  Yet  such 
an  act  would  be  blackguardly,  and  to  be  re- 
strained." 

P.  «  Of  course." 

S.  "  But  much  more,  if  he  accused  his  father 
only  on  his  own  private  suspicion,  not  having 
seen  him  commit  the  act ;  while  many  others, 
who  had  watched  his  father's  character  more 
than  he  did,  assured  him  that  he  was  mistaken." 

P.  "  Such  an  act  would  be  to  be  restrained, 
not  merely  as  blackguardly,  but  as  impious." 

S.  "  Or  if  a  man  believed  things  derogatory 
to  the  character  of  the  Gods,  not  having  seen 
them  do  wrong  himself,  while  all  those  who  had 
given  themselves  to  the  study  of  divine  things 
assured  him  that  he  was  mistaken,  would  he  not 
be  bound  to  restrain  an  inclination  to  speak  such 
things,  even  if  he  believed  them  ?" 

P.  "Surely,  Socrates;  and  that  even  if  he 


40  PHAETHON. 

believed  that  the  Gods  did  not  exist  at  all.  For 
there  would  be  far  more  chance  that  he  alone 
was  wrong,  and  the  many  right,  than  that  the 
many  were  wrong,  and  he  alone  right.  He  would 
therefore  commit  an  insolent  and  conceited  ac- 
tion, and,  moreover,  a  cruel  and  shameless  one ; 
for  he  would  certainly  make  miserable,  if  he 
were  believed,  the  hearts  of  many  virtuous  per- 
sons who  had  never  harmed  him,  for  no  imme- 
diate or  demonstrable  purpose  except  that  of 
pleasing  his  own  self-will;  and  that  much  more, 
were  he  wrong  in  his  assertion." 

S.  "  Here,  then,  is  another  case  in  which  it 
seems  proper  to  restrain  the  spirit  of  truth, 
whatsoever  it  may  be  ?" 

P.  "  What,  then,  are  we  to  say  of  those  who 
speak  fearlessly  and  openly  their  own  opinions 
on  every  subject?  for,  in  spite  of  all  this,  one 
cannot  but  admire  them,  whether  rationally  or 
irrationally." 

S.  "  We  will  allow  them  at  least  the  honor 
which  we  do  to  the  wild  boar,  who  rushes  fiercely 
through  thorns  and  brambles  upon  tRe  dogs,  not 
to  be  turned  aside  by  spears  or  tree-trunks,  and 
indeed  charges  forward  the  more  valiantly  the 
more  tightly  he  shuts  his  eyes.  That  praise  we 
can  bestow  on  him,  but,  I  fear,  no  higher  one. 


PHAETHON.  41 

It  is  expedient,  nevertheless,  to  have  such  a 
temperament,  as  it  is  to  have  a  good  memory,  or 
a  loud  voice,  or  a  straight  nose,  unlike  mine ; 
only,  like  other  animal  passions,  it  must  be  re- 
strained and  regulated  by  reason  and  the  law  of 
right,  so  as  to  employ  itself  only  on  such  mat- 
ters and  to  such  a  degree  as  they  prescribe." 

"  It  may  seem  so  in  the  argument,"  said  I. 
"  Yet  no  argument,  even  of  yours,  Socrates,  with 
your  pardon,  shall  convince  me  that  the  spirit 
of  truth  is  not  fair  and  good,  ay,  the  noblest 
possession  of  all ;  throwing  away  which,  a  man 
throws  away  his  shield,  and  becomes  unworthy 
of  the  company  of  Gods  or  men." 

S.  "  Or  of  beasts  either,  as  it  seems  to  me 
and  the  argument.  Nevertheless,  to  this  point 
has  the  argument,  in  its  cunning  and  malice, 
brought  us  by  crooked  paths.  Can  we  find  no 
escape  ?" 

P.  "  I  know  none." 

S.  "  But  may  it  not  be  possible  that  we,  not 
having  been  initiated,  like  Alcibiades,  into  the 
Babylonian  mysteries,  have  somewhat  mistaken 
the  meaning  of  that  expression,  '  spirit  of  truth  ?' 
For  truth  we  defined  to  be  '  facts  as  they  are.' 
The  spirit  of  truth  then  should  mean,  should  it 
not,  the  spirit  of  facts  as  they  are  ?" 


42  PHAETHON. 

P.  « It  should." 

S.  "  But  what  shall  we  say  that  this  expres- 
sion, in  its  turn,  means?  The  spirit  which 
makes  facts  as  they  are  ?" 

A.  "  Surely  not.  That  would  be  the  supreme 
Demiurgus  Himself." 

S.  "  Of  whom  you  were  not  speaking,  when 
you  spoke  of  the  spirit  of  truth  ?" 

A.  "  Certainly  not.  I  was  speaking  of  a 
spirit  in  man." 

S.  "  And  belonging  to  him  ?" 

A.  "Yes." 

S.  "  And  doing — what,  with  regard  to  facts 
as  they  are?  for  this  is  just  the  thing  which 
puzzles  me." 

A.  "  Telling  facts  as  they  are." 

S.  "  Without  seeing  them  as  they  are  ?" 

A.  "  How  you  bore  one !  of  course  not.  It 
sees  facts  as  they  are,  and  therefore  tells  them." 

S.  "  But  perhaps  it  might  see  them  as  they 
are,  and  find  it  expedient,  being  of  the  same 
temperament  as  I,  to  hold  its  tongue  about  them  ? 
Would  it  then  be  still  the  spirit  of  truth  ?" 

A.  "  It  would,  of  course." 

S.  "  The  man  then  who  possesses  the  spirit 
of  truth  will  see  facts  as  they  are  ?" 

A.  "  He  will." 


PIIAETHON.  43 

S.  "  And  conversely  ?" 

A.  "Yes." 

S.  "  But  if  he  sees  anything  only  as  it  seems 
to  him,  and  is  not  in  fact,  he  will  not,  with 
regard  to  that  thing,  see  it  by  the  spirit  of 
truth?" 

A.  "  I  suppose  not. 

S.  "  Neither  then  will  he  be  able  to  speak  of 
it  by  the  spirit  of  truth." 

A.  "Why?" 

S.  "  Because,  by  what  we  agreed  before,  it 
will  not  be  there  to  speak  of,  my  wondrous 
friend  !  For  it  appeared  to  us,  if  I  recollect 
right,  that  facts  can  only  exist  as  they  are,  and 
not  as  they  are  not,  and  that  therefore  the  spirit 
of  truth  had  nothing  to  do  with  any  facts  but 
those  which  are." 

"  But,"  I  interrupted,  "  0  dear  Socrates,  I 
fear  much  that  if  the  spirit  of  truth  be  such  as 
this,  it  must  be  beyond  the  reach  of  man." 

S.  "Why  then?" 

P.  "  Because  the  immortal  Gods  only  can  see 
things  as  they  really  are,  having  alone  made  all 
things,  and  ruling  them  all  according  to  the  laws 
of  each.  They  therefore,  I  much  fear,  will  be 
alone  able  to  behold  them,  how  they  are  really 
in  their  inner  nature  and  properties,  and  not 


44  PHAETHON. 

merely  from  the  outside,  and  by  guess,  as  we 
do.  How  then  can  we  obtain  such  a  spirit  our- 
selves ?" 

S.  "  Dear  boy,  you  seem  to  wish  that  I  should, 
as  usual,  put  you  off  with  a  myth,  when  you 
begin  to  ask  me  about  those  who  know  far  more 
about  me  than  I  do  about  them.  Nevertheless, 
shall  I  tell  you  a  myth?" 

I  \  "  If  you  have  nothing  better." 
S.  "  They  say,  then,  that  Prometheus,  when 
he  grew  to  man's  estate,  found  mankind,  though 
they  were  like  him  in  form,  utterly  brutish  and 
ignorant,  so  that,  as  TEschylus  says : — 

*  Seeing  they  saw  in  vain, 

Hearing  they  heard  not ;  but  were  like  tho  shapes 
Of  dreams,  and  long  time  did  confuse  all  things 
At  random:' 

being,  as  I  suppose,  led,  like  the  animals,  only 
by  their  private  judgments  of  things  as  they 
seemed  to  each  man,  and  enslaved  to  that  sub- 
jective truth,  which  we  found  to  be  utterly 
careless  and  ignorant  of  facts  as  they  are.  But 
Prometheus,  taking  pity  on  them,  determined  in 
his  mind  to  free  them  from  that  slavery  and  to 
teach  them  to  rise  above  the  beasts,  by  seeing 
things  as  they  are.  He  therefore  made  them 


PHAETHON.  45 

acquainted  with  the  secrets  of  nature,  and  taught 
them  to  build  houses,  to  work  in  wood  and 
metals,  to  observe  the  courses  of  the  stars,  and 
all  other  such  arts  and  sciences,  which  if  any 
man  attempts  to  follow  according  to  his  private 
opinion,  and  not  according  to  the  rules  of  that 
art,  which  are  independent  of  him  and  of  his 
opinions,  being  discovered  from  the  unchange- 
able laws  of  things  as  they  are,  he  will  fail.  But 
yet,  as  the  myth  relates,  they  became  only  a 
more  cunning  sort  of  animals  ;  not  being  wholly 
freed  from  their  original  slavery  to  a  certain 
subjective  opinion  about  themselves,  that  each 
man  should,  by  means  of  those  arts  and  sciences, 
please  and  help  himself  only.  Fearing,  there- 
fore, lest  their  increased  strength  and  cunning 
should  only  enable  them  to  prey  upon  each  other 
all  the  more  fiercely,  he  stole  fire  from  heaven, 
and  gave  to  each  man  a  share  thereof  for  his 
hearth,  and  to  each  community  for  their  common 
altar.  And  by  the  light  of  this  celestial  fire 
they  learnt  to  see  those  celestial  and  eternal 
bonds  between  man  and  man,  as  of  husband  to 
wife,  of  father  to  child,  of  citizen  to  his  country, 
and  of  master  to  servant,  without  which  man  is 
but  a  biped  without  feathers,  and  which  are  in 
themselves,  being  independent  of  the  flux  of 


46  niAETHON. 

matter  and  time,  most  truly  facts  as  they  are. 
And  since  that  time,  whatsoever  household  or 
nation  has  allowed  these  fires  to  become  extin- 
guished, has  sunk  down  again  to  the  level  of  the 
brutes  :  while  those  who  have  passed  them  down 
to  their  children  burning  bright  and  strong,  be- 
come partakers  of  the  bliss  of  the  Heroes,  in 
the  Happy  Islands.  It  seems  to  me  then, 
Phaethon  and  Alcibiades,  that  if  we  find  our- 
selves in  anywise  destitute  of  this  heavenly  fire, 
we  should  pray  for  the  coming  of  that  day,  when 
Prometheus  shall  be  unbound  from  Caucasus,  if 
by  any  means  he  may  take  pity  on  us  and  on 
our  children,  and  again  bring  us  down  from 
heaven  that  fire  which  is  the  spirit  of  truth,  that 
we  may  see  facts  as  they  are.  For  which  if  he 
were  to  ask  Zeus  humbly  and  filially,  I  cannot 
believe  that  He  would  refuse  it.  And  indeed, 
I  think  that  the  poets,  as  is  their  custom,  corrupt 
the  minds  of  young  men  by  telling  them  that 
Zeus  chained  Prometheus  to  Caucasus  for  his 
theft;  seeing  that  it  befits  such  a  ruler,  as  I 
take  the  Father  of  Gods  and  men  to  be,  to  know 
that  his  subjects  can  only  do  well  by  means  of 
his  bounty,  and  therefore  to  bestow  it  freely,  as 
the  kings  of  Persia  do,  on  all  who  are  willing  to 
use  it  in  the  service  of  their  sovereign." 


PHAETHON.  47 

"  So  then,"  said  Alcibiades  laughing,  "  till 
Prometheus  be  unbound  from  Caucasus,  we  who 
have  lost,  as  you  seem  to  hint,  this  heavenly 
fire,  must  needs  go  on  upon  our  own  subjective 
opinions,  having  nothing  better  to  which  to 
trust.  Truly,  thou  sophist,  thy  conclusion  seems 
to  me  after  all  not  to  differ  much  from  that  of 
Protagoras." 

S.  "  Ah,  dear  boy !  know  you  not  that  to 
those  who  have  been  initiated,  and , as  they  say 
in  the  mysteries,  twice  born,  Prometheus  is  al- 
ways unbound,  and  stands  ready  to  assist  them ; 
while  to  those  who  are  self-willed  and  conceited 
of  their  own  opinions,  he  is  removed  to  an 
inaccessible  distance,  and  chained  in  icy  fetters 
on  untrodden  mountain-peaks,  where  the  vulture 
ever  devours  his  fair  heart,  which  sympathises 
continually  with  the  follies  and  the  sorrows  of 
mankind?  Of  what  punishment,  then,  must 
not  those  be  worthy,  who  by  their  own  wilful- 
ness  and  self-confidence  bind  again  to  Caucasus 
the  fair  Titan,  the  friend  of  men  ?" 

"  By  Apollo !"  said  Alcibiades,  "  this  lan- 
guage is  more  fit  for  the  tripod  in  Delphos,  than 
for  the  Bema  in  the  Pnyx.  So  fare  thee  well, 
thou  Pythoness !  I  must  go  and  con  over  my 


48  PHAETHON. 

oration,  at  least  if  thy  prophesying  has  not 
altogether  addled  my  thoughts." 

But  I,  as  soon  as  Alcibiades  was  gone,  for  I 
was  ashamed  to  speak  before,  turning  to  Socrates 
said  to  him,  all  but  weeping : — 

"  Oh  Socrates,  what  cruel  words  are  these 
which  you  have  spoken  ?  Are  you  not  ashamed 
to  talk  thus  contemptuously  to  one  like  me, 
even  though  he  be  younger  and  less  cunning  in 
argument  than  yourself;  knowing  as  you  do, 
how,  when  I  might  have  grown  rich  in  my 
native  city  of  Rhodes,  and  marrying  there, 
as  my  father  purposed,  a  wealthy  merchant's 
heiress,  so  have  passed  my  life  delicately,  receiv- 
ing the  profits  of  many  ships  and  warehouses, 
I  yet  preferred  Truth  beyond  riches;  and 
leaving  my  father's  house,  came  to  Athens  in 
search  of  wisdom,  dissipating  my  patrimony 
upon  one  sophist  after  another,  listening  greedily 
to  Hippias,  and  Polus,  and  Gorgias,  and  Pro- 
tagoras, and  last  of  all  to  you,  hard-hearted  man 
that  you  are  ?  For  from  my  youth  I  loved  and 
longed  after  nothing  so  much  as  Truth,  whatso- 
ever it  may  be ;  thinking  nothing  so  noble  as 
to  know  that  which  is  Right,  and  knowing  it, 
to  do  it.  And  that  longing,  or  love  of  mine, 
which  is  what  I  suppose  Protagoras  meant  by 


PHAETHON.  49 

the  spirit  of  truth,  I  cherished  as  the  fairest  and 
most  divine  possession,  and  that  for  which  alone 
it  was  worth  while  to  live.    For  it  seemed  to  me, 
that  even  if  in  my  search  I  never  attained  to 
truth,  still  it  were  better  to  die  seeking,  than 
not  to  seek ;  and  that  even  if  acting  by  what 
I  considered  to  be  the  spirit  of  truth,  and  doing 
honestly  in  every  case  that  which  seemed  right, 
I   should    often,    acting   on  a  false  conviction, 
offend  in  ignorance  against  the  absolute  right- 
eousness of  the  Gods,  yet  that  such  an  offence 
was  deserving,  if  not  of  praise  for  its  sincerity, 
yet  at  least  of  pity  and  forgiveness ;  but  by  no 
means  to  be  classed,  as  you  class  it,  with  the 
appetites  of  brutes ;  much  less  to  be  threatened, 
as  you  threaten  it,  with  infinite  and  eternal 
misery  by  I  know   not   what   necessary  laws 
of  Zeus,  and  to  be  put  off  at  last  with   some 
myth  or  other  about  Prometheus.     Surely  your 
mother  bare  you  a  scoffer  and  pitiless,  Socrates, 
and  not,  as  you  boast,  a  man-midwife  fit  for  fair 
youths." 

Then,  smiling  sweetly,  "Dear  boy,"  said 
he,  "were  I  such  as  you  fancy,  how  should 
I  be  here  now,  discoursing  with  you  concerning 
truth,  instead  of  conning  my  speech  for  the 
Pnyx,  like  Alcibiades,  that  I  may  become  a 
5 


50  THAETHON. 

demagogue,  deceiving  the  mob  with  flattery, 
and  win  for  myself  houses,  and  lands,  and  gold, 
and  slave-girls,  and  fame,  and  power,  even  to 
a  tyranny  itself  ?  For  in  this  way  I  might  have 
made  my  tongue  a  profitable  member  of  my 
body :  but  now,  being  hurried  up  and  down 
in  barren  places,  like  one  mad  of  love,  from  my 
longing  after  fair  youths,  I  waste  my  speech  on 
them ;  receiving,  as  is  the  wont  of  true  lovers, 
only  curses  and  ingratitude  from  their  arrogance. 
But  tell  me,  thou  proud  Adonis — This  spirit 
of  truth  in  thee,  which  thou  thoughtest,  and 
rightly,  thy  most  noble  possession — did  it  desire 
truth,  or  not  ?" 

P.  "  But,  Socrates,  I  told  you  that  very  thing, 
and  said  that  it  was  a  longing  after  truth,  which 
I  could  not  restrain  or  disobey." 

S.  "  Tell  me  now,  does  one  long  for  thai 
which  one  possesses,  or  for  that  which  one  docs 
not  possess?" 

P.  "  For  that  which  one  does  not  possess." 

S.  "And  is  one  in  love  with  that  which  is 
oneself,  or  with  that  which  is  not  ?" 

P.  "With  that  which  is  not  oneself,  thou 
mocker.  We  are  not  all,  surely,  like  Nar- 
cissus ?" 

S.  "  No,  by  the  dog !  not  quite  all.     But  see 


PHAETHON.  51 

now :  it  appears  that  when  any  one  is  in  love 
with  a  thing,  and  longs  for  it,  as  thou  didst 
for  truth,  it  must  be  something  which  is  not 
himself,  and  which  he  does  not  possess  ?" 

P.  "True." 

S.  "  You,  then,  while  you  were  loving  facts 
as  they  are,  and  longing  to  see  them  as  they 
are,  yet  did  not  possess  that  which  you  longed 
for?" 

P.  "  True,  indeed ;  else  why  should  I  have 
been  driven  forth  by  the  anger  of  the  gods,  like 
Bellerophon,  to  pace  the  Aleian  plain,  eating  my 
own  soul,  if  I  had  possessed  that  for  which 
I  longed  ?" 

S.  "Well  said,  dear  boy.  But  see  again. 
This  truth  which  you  loved,  and  which  was 
not  yourself  or  part  of  yourself,  was  certainly 
also  nothing  of  your  own  making  ? — Though 
they  say  that  Pygmalion  was  enamored  of  the 
statue  which  he  himself  had  carved." 

P.  "But  he  was  miserable,  Socrates,  till  the 
statue  became  alive." 

S.  "  They  say  so :  but  what  has  that  to  do 
with  the  argument  ?" 

P.  "  I  know  not.  But  it  seems  to  me 
horrible,  as  it  did  to  Pygmalion,  to  be  ena- 
moured of  anything  which  cannot  return  your 


52  PIIAETIION. 

love,  but  is,  as  it  were,  your  puppet.  Should 
we  not  think  it  a  shameful  thing,  if  a  mistress 
were  to  be  enamoured  of  one  of  her  own 
slaves  ?" 

S.  "  We  should ;  and  that,  I  suppose,  because 
the  slave  would  have  no  free  choice  whether 
to  refuse  or  to  return  his  mistress's  love ;  but 
would  be  compelled,  being  a  slave,  to  submit 
to  her,  even  if  she  were  old,  or  ugly,  or  hateful 
to  him?" 

P.  "Of  course." 

S.  "And  should  we  not  say,  Phaethon,  that 
there  was  no  true  enjoyment  in  such  love,  even 
on  the  part  of  the  mistress;  nay,  that  it  was 
not  worthy  of  the  name  of  love  at  all,  but 
was  merely  something  base,  such  as  happens 
to  animals  ?" 

P.  "  We  should  say  so  rightly." 

S.  "  Tell  me,  then,  Phaethon, — for  a  strange 
doubt  has  entered  my  mind  on  account  of  your 
words — this  truth  of  which  you  were  en- 
amoured, seems,  from  what  has  been  agreed, 
not  to  be  a  part  of  yourself,  nor  a  creation 
of  your  own,  like  Pygmalion's  statue : — how 
then  has  it  not  happened  to  you  to  be  even 
more  miserable  than  Pygmalion  till  you  were 
sure  that  truth  loved  you  in  return  ? — and. 


PHAETHON.  53 

moreover,  till  you  were  sure  that  truth  had 
free  choice  as  to  whether  it  should  return  or 
refuse  your  love  ?  For,  otherwise,  you  would  be 
in  danger  of  being  found  suffering  the  same 
base  passion  as  a  mistress  enamoured  of  a  slave 
who  cannot  resist  her." 

P.  "  I  am  puzzled,  Socrates." 

S.  "  Shall  we  rather  say,  then,  that  you 
were  enamoured,  not  of  truth  itself,  but  of  the 
spirit  of  truth  ?  For  we  have  been  all  along 
defining  truth  to  be  'facts  as  they  are,'  have 
we  not?" 

P.  "We  have." 

S.  "  But  there  are  many  facts  as  they  are, 
whereof  to  be  enamoured  would  be  base,  for 
they  cannot  return  your  love.  As,  for  instance 
that  one  and  one  make  two,  or  that  a  horse  has 
four  legs.  With  respect  to  such  facts,  you 
would  be,  would  you  not,  in  the  same  position 
as  a  mistress  towards  her  slave  ?" 

P.  "  Certainly.  It  seems,  then,  better  to 
assume  the  other  alternative." 

S.  "It  does.  But  does  it  not  follow,  that 
when  you  were  enamoured  of  this  spirit,  you 
did  not  possess  it  ?" 

P.  "  I  fear  so,  by  the  argument." 

S.  "  And  I  fear,  too,  that  we  agreed  that  he 
5* 


54  PHAETHON. 

only  who  possessed  the  spirit  of  truth  saw  facts 
as  they  are ;  for  that  was  involved  in  our  defini- 
tion of  the  spirit  of  truth." 

P.  "  But?  Socrates,  I  knew,  at  least,  that  one 
and  one  made  two,  and  that  a  horse  had  four  legs. 
I  must  then  have  seen  some  facts  as  they  are." 

S.  "  Doubtless,  fair  hoy ;  but  not  all." 

P.  "  I  do  not  pretend  to  that." 

S.  "  But  if  you  had  possessed  the  spirit  of 
truth,  you  would  have  seen  all  facts  whatsoever 
as  they  are.  For  he  who  possesses  a  thing  can 
surely  employ  it  freely  for  all  purposes  which  ;nv 
not  contrary  to  the  nature  of  that  thing ;  can 
he  not?" 

P.  "Of  course  he  can.  But  if  I  did  not 
possess  the  spirit  of  truth,  how  could  I  see  any 
truth  whatsoever  ?" 

S.  "  Suppose,  dear  boy,  that  instead  of  your 
possessing  it,  it  were  possible  for  it  to  possess 
you :  and  possessing  you,  to  show  you  as  much 
of  itself,  or  as  little,  as  it  might  choose,  and 
concerning  such  things  only  as  it  might  choose  : 
would  not  that  explain  the  dilemma  ?" 

P.  "It  would  assuredly." 

S.  "  Let  us  see,  then,  whether  this  spirit  of 
truth  may  not  be  something  which  is  capable  of 
possessing  you,  and  employing  you,  rather  than 


PHAETHON.  55 

of  being  possessed  and  employed  by  you.  To 
me,  indeed,  this  spirit  seems  likely  to  be  some 
demon  or  deity,  and  that  one  of  the  greatest." 

P.  "Why  then?" 

S.  "  Can  lifeless  and  material  things  see  ?" 

P.  "  Certainly  not ;  only  live  ones." 

S.  "  This  spirit,  then,  seems  to  be  living ;  for 
it  sees  things  as  they  are." 

P.  "Yes." 

S.  "And  it  is  also  intellectual;  for  intel- 
lectual facts  can  be  only  seen  by  an  intellectual 
being." 

P.  "True." 

S.  "And  also  moral;  for  moral  facts  can 
only  be  seen  byH  moral  being." 

P.  "  True  also." 

S.  "  But  this  spirit  is  evidently  not  a  man ; 
it  remains,  therefore,  that  it  must  be  some  de- 


mon." 


P.  "  But  why  one  of  the  greatest  ?" 
S.  "Tell  me,  Phaethon,  is  not  God   to   be 
numbered  among  facts  as  they  are  ?" 

P.  "  Assuredly ;  for  He  is  before  all  others, 
.  and  more  eternal  and  absolute  than  all." 

S.  "  Then  this  spirit  of  truth  must  also  be 
able  to  see  God  as  He  is." 
P.  "  It  is  probable." 


56  PHAETHON. 

S.  "And  certain,  if,  as  we  agreed,  it  be  the 
very  spirit  which  sees  all  facts  whatsoever  as 
they  are.  Now  tell  me,  can  the  less  see  the 
greater  as  it  is  ?" 

P.  "  I  think  riot ;  for  an  animal  cannot  see  a 
man  as  he  is,  but  only  that  part  of  him  in  which 
he  is  like  an  animal,  namely,  his  outward  figure 
and  his  animal  passions;  but  not  his  moral 
sense  or  reason,  for  of  them  it  has  itself  no 
share." 

S.  "True;  and  in  like  wise^  a  man  of  less 
intellect  could  not  see  a  man  of  greater  intellect 
than  himself,  as  he  is,  but  only  a  part  of  his 
intellect." 

P.  "Certainly." 

S.  "  And  does  not  the  same  thing  follow  from 
what  we  said  just  now,  that  God's  conceptions 
of  Himself  must  be  the  only  perfect  conceptions 
of  Him  ?  For  if  any  being  could  see  God  as 
He  is,  the  same  would  be  able  to  conceive  of 
Him  as  He  is;  which  we  agreed  was  impossible." 

P.  "True." 

S.  "  Then,  surely,  this  spirit  which  sees  God 
as  He  is,  must  be  equal  with  God." 

P.  "  It  seems  probable ;  but  none  is  equal  to 
God  except  Himself." 

S.  "Most  true,  Phaethon.     But  what  shall 


rilAETHON.  57 

we  say  now,  but  that  this  spirit  of  truth,  whereof 
thou  hast  been  enamoured,  is,  according  to  the 
argument,  none  other  than  Zeus,  who  alone 
comprehends  all  things,  and  sees  them  as  they 
are,  because  He  alone  has  given  to  each  its 
inward  and  necessary  laws  ?" 

P.  "But,  Socrates,  there  seems  something 
impious  in  the  thought." 

S.  "  Impious,  truly,  if  we  held  that  this  spirit 
of  truth  was  a  part  of  your  t)wn  self.  But  we 
agreed  that  it  was  not  a  part  of  you,  but  some- 
thing utterly  independent  of  you." 

P.  "  Noble  would  the  news  be,  Socrates,  were 
it  true ;  yet  it  seems  to  me  beyond  belief." 

S.  "Did  we  not  prove  just  now  concerning 
Zeus,  that  all  mistakes  concerning  Him  were 
certain  to  be  mistakes  of  defect  ?" 

P.  «  We  did,  indeed." 

S.  "  How  do  you  know,  then,  that  you  have 
not  fallen  into  some  such  error,  and  have  sus- 
pected Zeus  to  be  less  condescending  towards 
you  than  He  really  is  ?" 

P.  "  Would  that  it  were  so  !  But  I  fear  it  is 
too  fair  a  hope." 

S.  "  Do  I  seem  to  thee  now,  dear  boy,  more 
insolent  and  unfeeling  than  Protagoras,  when  he 
tried  to  turn  thee  away  from  the  search  after 


58  PHAETIION. 

absolute  truth,  by  saying  sophistically  that  it 
was  an  attempt  of  the  Titans  to  scale  heaven, 
and  bade  thee  be  content  with  asserting  shame- 
lessly and  brutishly  thine  own  subjective 
opinions?  For  I  do  not  bid  thee  scale  the 
throne  of  Zeus,  into  whose  presence  none  could 
arrive,  as  it  seems  to  me,  unless  He  himself 
willed  it ;  but  to  believe  that  He  has  given  thee 
from  thy  childhood  a  glimpse  of  his  own  excel- 
lence, that  so,  thy  heart,  conjecturing,  as  in  the 
case  of  a  veiled  statue,  from  one  part  the  beauty 
of  the  rest,  might  become  enamoured  thereof, 
and  long  for  that  sight  of  Him  which  is  the 
highest  and  only  good,  that  so  his  splendor  may 
give  thee  light  to  see  facts  as  they  are." 

P.  "  Oh,  Socrates !  and  how  is  this  blessed- 
ness to  be  attained  ?" 

S.  "  Even  as,  the  myths  relate,  the  Nymphs 
obtained  the  embraces  of  the  Gods;  by  pleasing 
Him  and  obeying  Him  in  all  things,  lifting  up 
daily  pure  hands  and  a  thankful  heart,  if  by  any 
means  He  may  condescend  to  purge  thine  eyes, 
that  thou  mayest  see  clearly,  and  without  those 
motes,  and  specks,  and  distortions  of  thine  own 
organ  of  vision,  which  flit  before  the  eyeballs  of 
those  who  have  been  drunk  over  night,  and 
which  are  called  by  sophists  subjective  truth ; 


PHAETHON.  59 

watching  everywhere  anxiously  and  reverently 
for  those  glimpses  of  his  beauty,  which  He  will 
vouchsafe  to  thee  more  and  more  as  thou  provest 
thyself  worthy  of  them,  and  will  reward  thy  love 
by  making  thee  more  and  more  partaker  of  his 
own  spirit  of  truth ;  whereby  seeing  facts  as  they 
are,  thou  wilt  see  Him  who  has  made  them 
according  to  his  own  ideas,  that  they  may  be  a 
mirror  of  his  unspeakable  splendor.  Is  not 
this  a  fairer  hope  for  thee,  0  Phaethon,  than 
that  which  Protagoras  held  out  to  thee, — that 
neither  seeing  Zeus,  nor  seeing  facts  as  they  are, 
nor  affirming  any  truth  whatsoever,  nor  depend- 
ing for  thy  knowledge  on  any  one  but  thine  own 
ignorant  self,  thou  mightest  nevertheless  be  so 
fortunate  as  to  escape  punishment;  not  knowing, 
as  it  seems  to  me,  that  such  a  state  of  ignorance 
and  blindfold  rashness,  even  if  Tartarus  were  a 
dream  of  the  poets  or  the  priests,  is  in  itself  the 
most  fearful  of  punishments  ?" 

P.  "It  is,  indeed,  my  dear  Socrates.  Yet 
what  are  we  to  say  of  those  who,  sincerely  loving 
and  longing  after  knowledge,  yet  arrive  at  false 
conclusions,  which  are  proved  to  be  false  by  con- 
trdicting  each  other?" 

S.  "  We  are  to  say,  Phaethon,  that  they  have 
not  loved  knowledge  enough  to  desire  utterly  to 


60  PHAETIION. 

see  facts  as  they  are,  but  only  to  see  them  as 
they  would  wish  them  to  be ;  and  loving  them- 
selves rather  than  Zeus,  have  wished  to  remodel 
in  some  things  or  other  his  universe,  according 
to  their  own  subjective  opinions.    By  this,  or  by 
some  other  act  of  self-will,  or  self-conceit,  or  self- 
dependence,  they  have  compelled  Zeus,  not,  as  I 
think,  without  pity  and  kindness  to  them,  to 
withdraw  from  them  in  some  degree  the  sight  of 
his  own  beauty.     We  must,  therefore,  I  fear, 
liken  them  to  Acharis,  the  painter  of  Lemnos, 
who,  intending  to  represent   Phoebus,  painted 
from  a  mirror  a  copy  of  his  own  defects  and  de- 
formities ;  or  perhaps  to  that  Nymph,  who  find- 
ing herself  beloved  by  Phoebus,  instead  of  reve- 
rently and  silently  returning  the  affection,  boasted 
of  it  to  all  her  neighbors,  as  a  token  of  her 
own  beauty,  and  despised  the  God ;  so  that  he, 
being  angry,  changed  her  into  a  chattering  mag- 
pie ;  or  again  to  Arachne,  who  having  been  taught 
the  art  of  weaving  by  Athene,  pretended  to  com- 
pete with  her  own  instructress,  and  being  meta- 
morphosed by  her  into  a  spider,  was  condemned, 
like  the  sophists,  to  spin  out  of  her  own  entrails 
endless  ugly  webs,  which  are  destroyed,  as  soon 
as  finished,  by  every  slave-girl's  broom." 

P.  "  But  shall  we   despise  and   hate  such, 
0  Socrates  ?" 


PHAETHON.  01 

S.  "  No,  dearest  boy,  we  will  rather  pity  and 
instruct  them  lovingly;  remembering  always 
that  we  shall  become  such  as  they  the  moment 
we  begin  to  fancy  that  truth  is  our  own  posses- 
sion, and  not  the  very  beauty  of  Zeus  Himself, 
which  He  shows  to  those  whom  He  will,  and 
in  such  measure  as  He  finds  them  worthy  to 
behold.  But  to  me,  considering  how  great  must 
be  the  condescension  of  Zeus  in  unveiling  to 
any  man,  even  the  worthiest,  the  least  portion  of 
his  own  loveliness,  there  has  come  at  times  a 
sort  of  dream,  that  the  divine  splendor  will  at 
last  pierce  through  and  illumine  all  dark  souls, 
even  in  the  house  of  Hades,  showing  them,  as  by 
a  great  sunrise,  both  what  they  themselves,  and 
what  all  other  things  are,  really  and  in  the  sight 
of  Zeus ;  which  if  it  happened,  even  to  Ixion,  I 
believe  that  his  wheel  would  stop,  and  his  fetters 
drop  off  of  themselves,  and  that  he  would  return 
freely  to  the  upper  air,  for  as  long  as  he  himself 
might  choose." 

Just  then  the  people  began  to  throng  into  the 
Pnyx ;  and  we  took  our  places  with  the  rest  to 
hear  the  business  of  the  day,  after  Socrates  had 
privately  uttered  this  prayer : — 

"  0  Zeu,  give  to  me  and  to  all  who  shall  coun- 
sel here  this  day,  that  spirit  of  truth  by  which 
6 


62  PIIAETIION. 

we  may  behold  that  whereof  we  deliberate,  as  it 
is  in  Thy  sight !" 


"As  I  expected,"  said  Templeton,  with  a 
smile,  as  I  folded  up  my  manyscript.  "My 
friend  the  parson  could  not  demolish  the  poor 
Professor's  bad  logic  without  a  little  professional 
touch  by  way  of  finish." 

"What  do  you  mean?' 

"  Oh — never  mind.  Only  I  owe  you  little 
thanks  for  sweeping  away  any  one  of  my  lingering 
sympathies  with  Mr.  Windrush,  if  all  you  can 
offer  me  instead  is  the  confounded  old  nostrum 
of  religion  over  again." 

"  Heyday,  friend  !     What  next  ?" 

"  Really,  my  dear  fellow,  I  beg  your  pardon. 
I  forgot  that  I  was  speaking  to  a  clergyman." 

"  Pray  don't  beg  my  pardon  on  that  ground. 
If  what  you  say  be  right,  a  clergyman  above 
all  others  ought  to  hear  it;  and  if  it  be  wrong, 
and  a  symptom  of  spiritual  disease,  he  ought  to 
hear  it  all  the  more.  But  I  cannot  tell  whether 
you  are  right  or  wrong,  till  I  know  what  you 
mean  by  religion ;  for  there  is  a  great  deal  of 


PHAETHON.  63 

very  truly  confounded  and  confounding  religion 
abroad  in  the  world  just  now,  as  there  has  been 
in  all  ages ;  and  perhaps  you  may  be  alluding  to 
that." 

Templeton  sat  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  play- 
ing with  ttte  tackle  in  his  fly-book,  and  then 
murmured  to  himself  the  well-known  lines  of 
Lucretius : — 

"  '  Humana  ante  oculos  foede  -cum  vita  jacret 
In  terris  oppressa  gravi  sub  Relligione 
Quse  caput  a  cocli  regionibus  ostendebat, 
Horribili  super  aspectu  mortalibus  instans : — ' 

"  .  .  .  .  There ! — blasphemous,  reprobate  fellow, 
am  I  not?" 

"  On  the  contrary,"  I  said,  "  I  think  that  in 
the  sense  in  which  Lucretius  intended  that  the 
lines  should  be  taken,  they  contain  a  great  deal 
of  truth.  He  had  seen  the  basest  and  foulest 
crimes  spring  from  that  which  he  calls  Relligio, 
and  he  had  a  full  right  to  state  that  fact.  I  am 
not  aware  that  one  blasphemes  the  Catholic  and 
Apostolic  Faith  by  saying  that  the  devilries  of 
the  Spanish  Inquisition  were  the  direct  offspring 
of  that  'religious  sentiment'  which  Mr.  Wind- 
rush's  school — though  they  are  at  all  events 
right  in  saying  that  its  source  is  in  man  himself, 
and  hot  in  the  '  regionibus  Coeli' — are  now  glo- 


64  PHAETHON. 

rifying,  as  something  which  enables  man  to  save 
his  own  soul  without  the  interference  of  '  The 
Deity/ — indeed,  whether  '  The  Deity'  chooses  or 
not." 

"  Do  leave  those  poor  Emersonians  alone  for 
a  few  minutes,  and  tell  me  how  yoti  can  recon- 
cile what  you  have  just  said  with  your  own 
dialogue  ?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Is  not  Lucretius  glorying  in  the  notion  that 
the  Gods  do  not  trouble  themselves  with  mortals, 
while  you  have  been  asserting  that  <  The  Deity' 
troubles  himself  even  with  the  souls  of  heathens  ?" 

"  Certainly.  But  that  is  quite  a  distinct  mat- 
ter from  his  dislike  of  what  he  calls  ' Relligio" 
In  that  dislike  I  can  sympathize  fully :  but  on 
his  method  of  escape  Mr.  Windrush  will  pro- 
bably look  with  more  complaisance  than  I  do, 
who  call  it  by  the  ugly  name  of  Atheism." 

"  Then  I  fear  you  would  call  me  an  Atheist, 
if  you  knew  all.  So  we  had  better  say  no  more 
about  it." 

"A  most  curious  speech,  certainly,  to  make 
to  a  parson,  or  soul-curer  by  profession !" 

"  Why,  what  on  earth  have  you  to  do  but  to 
abhor  and  flee  me?"  asked  he,  with  a  laugh, 
though  by  no  means  a  merry  one. 


PHAETHON.  65 

"  Would  your  having  a  headache  be  a  reason 
for  the  medical  man's  running  away  from  you, 
or  coming  to  visit  you  ?" 

"Ah,  but  this,  you  know,  is  my  < fault,'  and 
my  'crime,'  and  my  'sin.'  Eh?"  and  he  laughed 
again. 

"  Would  the  doctor  visit  you  the  less,  because 
it  was  your  own  fault  that  your  head  ached  ?" 

"  Ah,  but  suppose  I  professed  openly  no  faith 
in  his  powers  of  curing,  and  had  a  great  hank- 
ering after  unaccredited  Homoeopathies,  like  Mr. 
Windrush's ;  would  not  that  be  a  fair  cause  for 
interdiction  from  fire  and  water,  sacraments  and 
Christian  burial  ?" 

"  Come,  come,  Templeton,"  I  said ;  "  you 
shall  not  thus  jest  away  serious  thoughts  with 
an  old  friend.  I  know  you  are  ill  at  ease.  Why 
not  talk  over  the  matter  with  me  fairly  and  so- 
berly ?  How  do  you  know  till  you  have  tried, 
whether  I  can  help  you  or  not  ?" 

"  Because  I  know  that  your  arguments  will 
have  no  force  with  me;  they  will  demand  of 
me,  or  assume  in  me,  certain  faculties,  senti- 
ments, notions,  experiences — call  them  what  you 
like — I  am  beginning  to  suspect  sometimes  with 
Cabanis  that  they  are  '  a  product  of  the  small 
intestines' — which  I  never  have  had,  and  never 
6* 


DO  PHAETHON. 

could  make  myself  have,  and  now  don't  care 
whether  I  have  them  or  not." 

"On  my  honour,  I  will  address  you  only  as 
what  you  are,  and  know  yourself  to  be.  But 
what  are  these  faculties,  so  strangely  beyond 
my  friend  Templeton's  reach  ?  He  used  to  be 
distinguished  at  college  for  a  very  clear  head, 
and  a  very  kind  heart,  and  the  nicest  sense  of 
honour  which  I  ever  saw  in  living  man ;  and  I 
have  not  heard  that  they  have  failed  him  since 
he  became  Templeton  of  Templeton.  And  as 
for  his  Churchmanship,  were  not  the  county 
papers  ringing  last  month  with  the  accounts  of 
the  beautiful  new  church  which  he  had  built, 
and  the  stained  glass  which  he  brought  from 
Belgium,  and  the  marble  font  which  -he  brought 
from  Italy ;  and  how  he  had  even  given  for  an 
altar-piece  his  own  pet  Luini,  the  gem  of  Tem- 
pleton House  ?" 

"  Effeminate  picture  !"  he  said.  "  It  was  part 
and  parcel  of  the  idea.  .  .  ." 

Before  I  could  ask  him  what  he  meant,  he 
looked  up  suddenly  at  me,  with  deep  sadness  on 
his  usually  nonchalant  face. 

"  Well,  my  dear  fellow,  I  suppose  I  must  tell 
you  all,  as  I  have  told  you  so  much  without 
your  shaking  the  dust  off  your  feet  against  me, 


PHAETHON.  67 

and  consulting  Bradshaw  for  the  earliest  train 
to  Shrewsbury.  You  knew  my  dear  mother  ?" 

"  I  did.     The  best  of  women." 

"  The  best  of  women,  and  the  best  of  mothers. 
But,  if  you  recollect,  she  was  a  great  Low-church 
saint." 

"Why  'but'?  How  does  that  derogate  in 
any  wise  from  her  excellence  ?" 

"  Not  from  her  excellence  ;  God  forbid  !  or 
from  the  excellence  of  the  people  of  her  own 
party,  whom  she  used  to  have  round  her,  and 
who  were,  some  of  them,  I  do  believe,  as  really 
earnest,  and  pious,  and  charitable,  and  all  that, 
as  human  beings  could  be.  But  it  did  take  away 
very  much  indeed  from  her  influence  on  me." 

"  Surely  she  did  not  neglect  to  teach  you." 

"  It  is  a  strange  thing  to  say,  but  she  rather 
taught  me  too  much.  I  don't  deny  that  it  may 
have  been  my  own  fault.  I  don't  blame  her,  or 
any  one.  But  you  know  what  I  was  at  college — 
no  worse  than  other  men,  I  dare  say;  but  no 
better.  I  had  no  reason  for  being  better." 

"  No  reason  ?     Surely  she  gave  you  reasons." 

"  There — you  have  touched  the  ailing  nerve 
now.  The  reasons  were  what  you  would  call 
paralogisms.  They  had  no  more  to  do  with  me 
than  those  trout." 


68  PHAETHON. 

"  You  mistake,  friend,  you  mistake,  indeed," 
said  I. 

"  I  don't  mistake  at  all  about  this ;  that 
whether  or  not  the  reasons  in  themselves  had 
to  do  with  me,  the  way  in  which  she  put  them 
made  them  practically  so  much  Hebrew.  She 
demanded  of  me,  as  the  only  grounds  on  which 
I  was  to  consider  myself  safe  from  hell,  certain 
fears  and  hopes  which  I  did  not  feel,  and  expe- 
riences which  I  did  not  experience ;  and  it  was 
my  fault,  and  a  sign  of  my  being  in  a  wrong 
state — to  use  no  harder  term — that  I  did  not 
feel  them ;  and  yet  it  was  only  God's  grace 
which  could  make  me  feel  them :  and  so  I  grew 
up  with  a  dark  secret  notion  that  I  was  a  very 
bad  boy  :  but  that  it  was  God's  fault  and  not 
mine  that  I  was  so." 

"  You  were  ripe  indeed  then,"  said  I  sadly, 
"  like  hundreds  more,  for  Professor  Windrush's 
teaching." 

"  I  will  come  to  that  presently.  But  in  the 
meantime, — was  it  my  fault  ?  I  was  never  what 
you  call  a  devout  person.  My  '  organ  of  venera- 
tion,' as  the  phrenologist  would  say,  was  never 
very  large.  I  was  a  shrew  dashing  boy,  en- 
joying life  to  the  finger-tips,,  and  enjoying  above 
all,  I  will  say,  pleasing  my  mother  in  every  way, 


PHAETHON.  bU 

except  in  the  understanding  what  she  told  me, — 
and  what  I  felt  I  could  not  understand.  But  as 
I  grew  older,  and  watched  her,  and  the  men 
round  her,  I  began  to  suspect  that  religion  and 
effeminacy  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  each  other. 
For  the  women,  whatsoever  their  temperaments, 
or  even  their  tastes  might  be,  took  to  this  to  me 
incomprehensible  religion  naturally  and  instinc- 
tively :  while  the  very  few  men  who  were  in  their 
clique  were — I  don't  deny  some  of  them  were 
good  men  enough — if  they  had  been  men  at  all : 
if  they  had  been  well-read,  or  well-bred,  or 
gallant,  or  clear-headed,  or  liberal-minded  or, 
in  short,  anything  but  the  silky,  smooth-tongued 
hunt-the-slippers  nine  out  of  ten  of  them  were. 
I  recollect  well  asking  my  mother  once,  whether 
there  would  not  be  five  times  more  women  than 
men  in  heaven — and  her  answering  me  sadly 
and  seriously,  that  she  feared  there  would  be. 
And  in  the  meantime  she  brought  me  up  to 
pray  and  hope  that  I  might  some  day  be 

converted,  and  become  a  child  of  God 

And  one  could  not  help  wishing  to  enjoy  one- 
self as  much  as  possible  before  that  event 
happened." 

"  Before  that  event  happened,  my  dear  fellow  ? 
Pardon  me,  but  your  tone  is  somewhat  irreverent." 


70  PIIAETHON.    . 

"Very  likely.  I  had  no  reason  put  before  me 
for  regarding  such  a  change  as  anything  but 
an  unpleasant  doom,  which  would  cut  me  off,  or 
ought  to  do  so,  from  field  sports,  from  poetry, 
from  art,  from  science,  from  politics, — for  Chris- 
tians, I  was  told,  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
politics  of  this  world, — from  man  and  all  man's 
civilization  in  short ;  and  leave  to  me,  as  the  only 
two  lawful  indulgences,  those  of  living  in  a  good 
house,  and  begetting  a  family  of  children." 

"  And  did  you  throw  off  the  old  Creeds  for  the 
sake  of  the  civilization  which  you  fancied  that 
they  forbid  ?" 

"No  ...  I  am  a  Churchman,  you  know; 
principally  on  political  grounds,  or  from  custom, 
or  from — the  devil  knows  what,  perhaps — I  do 
not." 

"  Probably  it  is  God,  and  not  the  devil,  who 
knows  why,  Templeton." 

"  Be  it  so  .  .  .  Frightful  as  it  is  to  have  to  say 
it  .  .  .  I  do  not  so  much  care  ...  I  suppose  it  is 
all  right :  if  it  is  not,  it  will  all  come  right  at  last. 
And  in  the  meantime,  I  compromise,  like  the 
rest  of  the  world ;  and  hear  Jane  making  the 
children  every  week-day  pray  that  they  may 
become  God's  children,  and  then  teaching  them 
every  Sunday  evening  the  Catechism,  which  says 


PHAETHON.  71 

that  they  are  so  already.  I  don't  understand  it. 
.  .  I  suppose  if  it  was  important,  one  would 
understand  it.  One  knows  right  from  wrong, 
you  know,  and  other  fundamentals.  If  that  were 
necessary,  one  would  know  that  too." 

"  But  can  you  submit  quietly  to  such  a  bare- 
faced contradiction  ?" 

"  I  ?  I  am  only  a  plain  country  squire.  Of 
course  I  should  call  such  dealing  with  an  act 
of  parliament  a  lie  and  a  sham.  .  .  .  But  about 
these  things,  I  fancy,  the  women  know  best. 
Jane  is  ten  thousand  times  as  good  as  I  am.  .  . 
you  don't  know  half  her  worth.  .  .  .  And  I 
haven't  the  heart  to  contradict  her — nor  the 
right  either ;  for  I  have  no  reasons  to  give  her ; 
no  faith  to  substitute  for  hers." 

"  Our  friend,  the  High-church  curate,  could 
have  given  you  a  few  plain  reasons,  I  should 
think." 

"  Of  course  he  could.  And  I  believe  in  my 
heart  the  man  is  in  the  right  in  calling  Jane 
wrong.  He  has  honesty  and  common  sense  on 
his  side,  just  as  he  has  when  he  calls  the  present 
state  of  Convocation,  in  the  face  of  that  prayer 
for  God's  Spirit  on  its  deliberations,  a  blasphe- 
mous lie  and  sham.  Of  course  it  is.  Any  ensign 
in  a  marching  regiment  could  tell  us  that,  from 


.72  PHAETHON. 

his  mere  sense  of  soldier's  honour.  But  then — 
if  she  is  wrong,  is  he  right  ?  How  do  I  know  ? 
I  want  reasons  :  he  gives  me  historic  authorities." 

"And  very  good  things  too;  for  they  are 
fair  phenomena  for  induction." 

"But  how  will  proving  to  me  that  certain 
people  once  thought  a  thing  right,  prove  to  me 
that  it  is  right  ?  Good  people  think  differently 
every  day.  Good  people  have  thought  differently 
about  those  very  matters  in  every  age.  I  want 
some  proof  which  will  coincide  with  the  little 
which  I  do  know  about  science  and  philosophy. 
They  must  fight  out  their  own  battle,  if  they 
choose  to  fight  it  on  mere  authority.  If  one 
could  but  have  the  implicit  faith  of  a  child,  it 
would  be  all  very  well,  but  one  can't.  If  one 
has  once  been  fool  enough  to  think  about  these 
things,  one  must  have  reasons,  or  something 
better  than  mere  ipse  dixits,  or  one  can't  believe 
them.  I  should  be  glad  enough  to  believe ; — 
Do  you  suppose  that  I  don't  envy  poor  dear  Jane 
from  morning  to  night  ?" — but  I  can't.  And  so. . ." 

"And  so  what?"  asked  I. 

"  And  so,  I  believe,  I  am  growing  to  have  no 
religion  at  all,  and  no  substitute  for  it  either ; 
for  I  feel  I  have  no  ground  or  reason  for  admi- 
ring or  working  out  any  subject.  I  have  tired 


PHAETHON.  73 

of  philosophy. — Perhaps  it's  all  wrong — at  least 
I  can't  see  what  it  has  to  do  with  God,  and 
Christianity,  and  all  which,  if  it  is  true,  must  be 
more  important  than  anything  else.  I  have 
tired  of  art  for  the  same  reason.  How  can  I  be 
anything  but  a  wretched  dilettante,  when  I 
have  no  principles  to  ground  my  criticism  on, 
beyond  bosh  about  '  The  Beautiful?'  I  did 
pluck  up  heart  and  read  Mr.  Ruskin's  books 
greedily  when  they  came  out,  because  I  heard 
he  'was  a  good  Christian.  But  I  fell  upon  a 
little  tract  of  his,  'Notes  on  Sheepfolds,'  and 
gave  him  up  again,  when  I  found  that  he  had  a 
leaning  to  that  '  Clapham  sect.'  I  have  dropped 
politics :  for  I  have  no  reason,  no  ground, 
no  principle  in  them,  but  expediency.  When 
they  asked  me  this  summer  to  represent 
the  interests  of  the  County  in  Parliament,  I 
asked  them  how  they  came  to  make  such  a 
mistake  as  to  fancy  that  I  knew  what  was  their 
interest,  or  any  one  else's?  I  am  becoming 
more  and  more  of  an  animal; — fragmentary, 
inconsistent,  seeing  to  the  root  of  nothing,  unable 
to  unite  things  in  my  own  mind.  I  just  do  the 
duty  which  lies  nearest,  and  looks  simplest.  I 
try  to  make  the  boys  grow  up  plucky  and 
knowing — though  what's  the  use  of  it  ?  They 


74  PHAETI10X. 

will  go  to  college  with  even  less  principles  than 
I  had,  and  will  get  into  proportionally  worse 
scrapes.  I  expect  to  be  ruined  by  their  debts 
before  I  die.  And  for  the  rest,  I  read  nothing 
but  the  Edinburgh  and  the  Agricultural  Gazette. 
My  talk  is  of  bullocks.  I  just  know  right  from 
wrong  enough  to  see  that  the  farms  are  in  good 
order,  pay  my  labourers  living  wages,  keep  the 
old  people  out  of  the  workhouse,  and  see  that 
my  cottages  and  schools  are  all  right;  for  I 
suppose  I  was  put  here  for  some  purpose  of  that 
kind — though  what  it  is,  I  can't  very  clearly 
define  ....  And  there's  an  end  of  my  long 
story." 

"  Not  quite  an  animal  yet,  it  seems  ?"  said  I 
with  a  smile,  half  to  hide  my  own  sadness  at  a  set 
of  experiences  which  are,  alas !  already  far  too 
common,  and  will  soon  be  more  common  still. 

"Nearer  it  than  you  fancy.  I  am  getting 
fonder  and  fonder  of  a  good  dinner  and  a  second 
.bottle  of  claret ; — about  their  meaning  there  is  no 
mistake.  And  my  principal  reason  for  taking 
the  hounds  two  years  ago,  was,  I  do  believe,  to 
have  something  to  do  in  the  winter  which  re- 
quired no  thought,  and  to  have  an  excuse  for 
falling  asleep  after  dinner,  instead  of  arguing 
with  Jane  about  her  scurrillous  religious  news- 


PHAETHON.  75 

papers.  .  .  .  There  is  a  great  gulf  opening,  I  see, 
between  me  and  her.  .  .  And  as  I  can't  bridge 
it  over,  I  may  as  well  forget  it.  Pah !  I  am 
boring  you,  and  over-talking  myself.  Have  a 
cigar,  and  let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  There 
is  more  here,  old  fellow,  than  you  will  cure  by 
doses  of  Socratic  Dialectics." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  I  replied.  "  On 
the  contrary,  I  should  recommend  you  in  your 
present  state  of  mind  to  look  out  your  old  Plato 
as  quickly  as  possible,  and  see  if  he  and  his 
master  Socrates  cannot  give  you,  if  not  alto- 
gether a  solution  for  your  puzzle,  at  least  a 
method  whereby  you  may  solve  it  yourself.  But 
tell  me  first — what  has  all  this  to  do  with  your 
evident  sympathy  for  a  man  so  unlike  yourself 
as  Professor  Windrush  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  feel  for  him  principally  because 
he  has  broken  loose  from  it  all  in  desperation, 
just  as  I  have.  But  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
have  been  reading  more  than  one  book  of  his 
school  lately ;  and,  as  I  said,  I  owe  you  no 
thanks  for  demolishing  the  little  comfort  which 
I  seemed  to  find  in  them." 

"And  what  was  that  then?" 

"  Why — in  the  first  place,  you  can't  deny  that 
however  incoherent  they  may  be,  they  do  say  a 


76  PHAETHON. 

great  many  clever  things,  and  noble  things  too, 
about  man,  and  society,  and  art,  and  nature." 

"No  doubt  of  it,"  * 

"  And  moreover,  they  seem  to  connect  all  they 
say  with — with — I  suppose  you  will  laugh  at  me 
— with  God,  and  spiritual  truths,  and  eternal 
Divine  laws ;  in  short,  to  consecrate  common 
matters  in  that  very  way,  which  I  could  not  find 
in  my  poor  mother's  teaching." 

"No  doubt  of  that  either.  And  therein  is 
one  real  value  of  them,  as  protests  in  behalf  of 
something  nobler  and  more  unselfish  than  the 
mere  dollar-getting  spirit  of  their  country." 

"  Well,  then,  can  you  not  see  how  pleasant  it 
was  to  me,  to  find  some  one  who  wrould  give  me 
a  peep  into  the  unseen  wrorld,  without  requiring 
as  an  entrance-fee  any  religious  emotions  and 
experiences  ?  Here  I  had  been  for  years  shut 
out;  told  that  I  had  no  business  with  anything 
eternal,  and  pure,  and  noble,  and  good ;  that  to 
all  intents  and  purposes  I  was  nothing  better 
than  a  very  cunning  animal  who  could  be  damned ; 
because  I  W7as  still  '  carnal,'  and  had  not  been 
through  all  Jane's  mysterious  sorrows  and  joys. 
And  it  was  really  good  news  to  me  to  hear  that 
they  were  not  required  after  all,  and  that  all  I 
need  do  was  to  be  a  good  man,  and  leave  devo- 


PHAETHON.  77 

tion  to  those  who  were  inclined  to  it  by  tempera- 
ment." 

"Not  to  be  a  good  man,"  said  I,  "but  only 
a  good  specimen  of  some  sort  of  man.  That,  I 
think,  would  be  the  outcome  of  Emerson's  '  Re- 
presentative Men,'  or  of  those  most  tragic 
'  Memoirs  of  Margaret  Fuller  Osspli.'  " 

"How  then,  hair-splitter?  What  is  the 
mighty  difference  ?" 

"  Would  you  call  Dick  Turpin  a  good  man, 
because  he  was  a  good  highwayman  ?" 

"What  now?" 

"  That  he  would  be  an  excellent  representa- 
tive man  of  his  class;  and  therefore,  on  Mr. 
Emerson's  grounds,  a  fit  subject  for  a  laudatory 
lecture." 

"  I  hate  reductiones  ad  absurdum.  Let  Turpin 
take  care  of  himself.  I  suppose  I  do  not  belong 
to  such  a  very  bad  sort  of  men,  but  that  it  may 
be  worth  my  while  to  become  a  good  specimen 
of  it?" 

"  Certainly  not ;  only  I  think,  contrary  to 
Mr.  Emerson's  opinion,  that  you  will  not  become 
even  that,  unless  you  first  become  something 
better  still,  namely,  a  good  man." 

"  There  you  are  too  refined  for  me.  But  can 
you  not  understand  now,  the  causes  of  my 

7* 


78  PHAETHON. 

sympathy  even  with  Windrush  and  his  '  spirit 
of  truth  ?" 

"  I  can,  and  those  of  many  more.  It  seems 
that  you  thought  you  found  in  that  school  a 
wider  creed  than  the  one  to  which  you  had  been 
accustomed  ?" 

"  There  was  a  more  comprehensive  view  of 
humanity  about  them,  and  that  pleased  me." 

"  Doubtless,  one  can  be  easily  comprehensive, 
if  one  comprehends  good  and  bad,  true  and 
false,  under  one  category,  by  denying  the  abso- 
lute existence  of  either  goodness  or  badness, 
truth  or  falsehood.  But  let  the  view  be  as  com- 
prehensive as  it  will,  I  am  afraid  that  the  creed 
founded  thereon  will  not  be  very  comprehen- 


sive." 


"Why  then?" 

"  Because  it  will  comprehend  so  few  people ; 
fewer,  even,  than  the  sect  of  those  who  will  be- 
lieve with  Mr.  Emerson,  that  Bacon,  like  The 
Lord,  is  one  of  the  '  heroes  who  have  become 
bores  at  last'  by  being  too  much  obeyed,  and 
that  Harvey  and  Newton  made  their  discoveries 
by  the  '  Aristotelian  method,'  The  sect  of  those 
who  believe  that  there  is  no  absolute  right  and 
wrong,  no  absolute  truth  external  to  himself, 
discoverable  by  man,  will,  it  seems  to  me,  be  a 


PHAETHON.  79 

very  narrow  one  to  the  end  of  time ;  owing  to  a 
certain  primeval  superstition  of  our  race,  who, 
even  in  barbarous  countries  have  always  been 
Platonists  enough  to  have  some  sort  of  instinct 
and  hope  that  there  was  a  right  and  a  wrong, 
and  truths  independent  of  their  own  sentiments 
and  faculties.  So  that,  though  this  school  may 
enable  you  to  fancy  that  you  understand  Lady 
Jane  somewhat  more,  by  the  simple  expedient 
of  putting  on  her  religious  experiences  an  arbi- 
trary interpretation  of  your  own,  which  she 
would  indignantly  and  justly  deny,  it  will 
enable  her  to  understand  you  all  the  less,  and 
widen  the  gulf  between  you  immeasurably." 

"  You  are  severe." 

"  I  only  wish  you  to  face  one  result  of  a 
theory,  which  while  it  pretends  to  offer  the  most 
comprehensive  liberality,  will  be  found  to  lead  in 
practice  to  the  most  narrow  and  sectarian  Epi- 
curism for  a  cultivated  few.  But  for  the  many, 
struggling  with  the  innate  consciousness  of  evil, 
in  them  and  around  them, — an  instinctive  con- 
sciousness which  no  argumentation  about  ( evil 
being  a  lower  form  of  good,'  will  ever  explain 
away  to  those  who  '  grind  among  the  iron  facts 
of  life,  and  have  no  time  for  self-deception' — 
what  good  news  for  them  is  there  in  Mr. 


80  PHAETHON. 

Emerson's  cosy  and  tolerant  Epicurism  ?  They 
cry  for  deliverance  from  their  natures ;  they  know 
that  they  are  not  that  which  they  were  intended 
to  be,  because  they  follow  their  natures ;  and  he 
answers  them  with,  '  Follow  your  natures,  and 
be  that  which  you  were  intended  to  be/  You 
began  this  argument  by  stipulating  that  I  should 
argue  with  you  simply  as  a  man.  Does  Mr. 
Emerson's  argument  look  like  doing  that,  or  only 
arguing  as  with  an  individual  of  that  kind  of 
man,  or  rather  animal,  to  which  some  iron  Fate 
has  compelled  you  to  belong  ?" 

"  But,  I  say,  these  books  have  made  me  a 
better  man." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it.  An  earnest  cultivated 
man,  speaking  his  whole  mind  to  an  earnest 
cultivated  man,  will  hardly  fail  of  telling  him 
something  he  did  not  know  before.  But  if  you 
had  not  been  a  cultivated  man,  Templeton,  a 
man  with  few  sorrows,  and  few  trials,  and  few 
unsatisfied  desires — if  you  had  been  the  village 
shopkeeper,  with  his  bad  debts,  and  his  temp- 
tations to  make  those  who  can,  pay  for  those 
who  cannot, — if  you  had  been  one  of  your  own 
labourers,  environed  with  the  struggle  for  daily 
bread,  and  the  alehouse,  and  hungry  children, 
and  a  sick  wife,  and  a  dull  taste,  and  a  duller 


PHAETHON.  81 

head, — in  short,  if  you  had  been  a  man  such  as 
nine  out  of  ten  are, — what  would  his  school  have 
taught  you  then  ?  You  want  some  truths  which 
are  common  to  men  as  men,  which  will  help  and 
teach  them,  let  their  temperament  or  their  circum- 
stances be  what  they  will — do  you  not  ?  If  you 
do  not,  your  complaint  of  Lady  Jane's  exclusive 
Creed  is  a  mere  selfish  competition  on  your  part, 
between  a  Creed  which  will  fit  her  peculiarities, 
and  a  Creed  which  will  fit  your  peculiarities. 
Do  you  not  see  that  ?" 

"  I  do — go  on." 

"  Then  I  say  you  will  not  find  that  in  Professor 
Windrush's  school.  I  say  you  will  find  it  in 
Lady  Jane's  Creed." 

"What?  In  the  very  Creed  which  excludes 
me?" 

"  Whether  that  Creed  excludes  you  or  not  is 
a  question  of  the  true  meaning  of  its  words. 
And  that  again  is  a  question  of  Dialectics.  I  say 
it  includes  you  and  all  mankind." 

"  You  must  mistake  her  doctrines,  then." 

"  I  do  not,  I  assure  you.  I  know  what  they 
are ;  and  I  know,  also,  the  mis-reading  of  them  to 
which  your  dear  mother's  school  has  accustomed 
her,  and  which  has  taught  her  that  these  Creeds 
only  belong  to  the  few  who  have  discovered  their 


82  PHAETHON. 

own  share  in  them.  But  whether  the  Creeds 
really  do  that  or  not, — whether  Lady  Jane  does 
not  implicitly  confess  that  they  do  not  by  her 
own  words  and  deeds  of  every  day,  that,  I  say, 
is  a  question  of  Dialectics,  in  the  Platonic  sense 
of  that  word,  as  the  science  which  discovers  the 
true  and  false  in  thought,  by  discovering  the 
true  and  false  concerning  the  meanings  of  words, 
which  represent  thought/' 

"  Be  it  so.  I  should  be  glad  to  hold  what 
Jane  holds,  for  the  sake  of  the  marvellous  prac- 
tical effect  on  her  character — sweet  creature  that 
she  is  ! — which  it  has  produced  in  the  last  seven 
years." 

"  And  which  effect,  I  presume,  was  not  in- 
creased by  her  denying  to  you  any  share  in 
the  same  ?" 

"  Alas,  no !  It  is  only  when  she  falls  on  that — 
when  she  begins  denouncing  and  excluding — that 
all  the  old  faults,  few  and  light  as  they  are,  seem 
to  leap  into  ugly  life  again  for  the  moment." 

"  Few  and  light,  indeed !  Ah,  my  dear 
Templeton,  the  gulf  between  you  and  happiness 
looks  wide;  but  only  because  it  is  magnified 
in  mist." 

"Which  you  would  have  me  disperse  by 
ligntning-flashes  of  Dialectics,  eh  ?  Well,  every 
man  has  his  nostrum." 


PHAETHON.  83 

"I  have  not.  My  method  is  not  my  own 
but  Plato's." 

"  But,  my  good  fellow,  the  Windrush  School 
admire  Plato  as  much  as  you  do,  and  yet  certainly 
arrive  at  somewhat  different  conclusions." 

"They  do  Plato  the  honour  of  patronising 
him,  as  a  Representative  Man;  but  their  real 
text-book,  you  will  find,  is  Proclus.  That  hapless 
Philosophaster's  a  priori  method,  even  his  very 
verbiage,  is  dear  to  their  souls ;  for  they  copy  it 
through  wet  and  dry,  through  sense  and  nonsense. 
But  as  for  Plato, — when  I  find  them  using  Plato's 
weapons,  I  shall  believe  in  their  understanding 
and  love  of  him." 

"  And  in  the  meanwhile,  claim  him  as  a  new 
verger  for  the  Reformed  Church  Catholic?" 

"  Not  a  new  verger,  Templeton.  Augustine 
said,  fourteen  hundred  years  ago,  that  Socrates 
was  the  philosopher  of  the  Catholic  Faith.  If  he 
has  not  seemed  so  of  late  years,  it  is,  I  suspect, 
because  we  do  not  understand  quite  the  same 
thing  as  Augustine  did,  when  we  talk  of  the 
Catholic  Faith  and  Christianity." 

"But  you  forget,  in  your  hurry  of  clerical 
confidence,  that  the  question  still  remains,  whe- 
ther these  Creeds  are  true." 

"  That,  too,  as  I  take  it,  is  a  question  of 


84  PHAETHON. 

Dialectics,  unless  you  choose  to  reduce  the  whole 
to  a  balance-of-probabilities-argument, — rather 
too  narrow  a  basis  for  a  World-faith  to  stand 
upon.  Try  all  '  mythic'  theories,  Straussite  and 
others,  by  honest  Dialectics.  Try  your  own 
thoughts  and  experiences,  and  the  accredited 
thoughts  and  experiences  of  wise  men,  by  the 
same  method.  Mesmerism  and  <  The  Develop- 
ment of  Species'  may  wait  till  they  have  settled 
themselves  somewhat  more  into  sciences ;  at 
present  it  does  not  much  matter  what  agrees  or 
disagrees  with  them.  But  using  this  weapon 
fearlessly  and  honestly,  you  will,  unless  Socrates 
and  Plato  were  fools,  arrive  at  absolute  eternal 
truths,  which  are  equally  true  for  all  men,  good 
or  bad,  conscious  or  unconscious ;  and  I  tell  you 
— of  course  you  need  not  believe  me  till  you 
have  made  trial — that  those  truths  will  coincide 
with  the  plain,  honest  meaning  of  the  Catholic 
Creeds,  as  determined  by  the  same  method, — 
the  only  one,  indeed,  by  which  they  or  anything 
else  can  be  determined." 

"You  forget  Baconian  induction,  of  which 
you  are  so  fond." 

"And  pray  what  are  Dialectics,  but  strict 
Baconian  induction  applied  to  words,  as"  the 
phenomena  of  mind,  instead  of  to  things,  the 
phenomena  of " 


PHAETHON.  85 

"What?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you ;  or,  rather,  I  will  not.  I 
have  my  own  opinion  about  what  those  trees  and 
stones  are ;  Jbut  it  it  will  require  a  few  years  more 
verification  before  I  tell." 

"  Really,  you  and  your  Dialectics  seem  in  a 
hopeful  and  valiant  state  of  mind." 

"Why  not?  Can  truth  do  anything  but 
conquer  ?" 

"  Of  course — assuming,  as  every  one  does, 
that  the  truth  is  with  you." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  have  seldom  met  a  man  who 
could  not  be  a  far  better  dialectician  than  I  shall 
ever  be,  if  he  would  but  use  his  Common  Sense." 

"  Common  Sense  ?  That  really  sounds  some- 
thing like  a  bathos,  after  the  great  big  Greek 
word  which  you  have  been  propounding  to  me 
as  the  cure  for  all  my  doubts." 

"What?  Are  you  about  to  'gib'  after  all, 
just  as  I  was  flattering  myself  that  I  had  broken 
you  in  to  go  quietly  in  harness  ?" 

"  I  am  very  much  minded  to  do  so.  The 
truth  is,  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  believe  that 
the  universal  panacea  lies  in  an  obscure  and 
ancient  scientific  method." 

"  Obscure  and  ancient  ?  Did  I  not  just  say 
that  any  man  might  be  a  dialectician?  Did 
8 


86  rilAETHON. 

Socrates  ever  appeal  to  any  faculty  but  the 
Common  Sense  of  man  as  man,  which  exists  just 
as  much  in  England  now,  I  presume,  as  it  did  in 
Athens  in  his  day  ?  Does  he  not,  in  pursuance 
of  that  method  of  his,  draw  his  arguments  and 
illustrations,  to  the  horror  of  the  big-worded 
Sophists,  from  dogs,  kettles,  fish-wives,  and  what 
not  which  is  vulgar  and  common-place  ?  Or  did 
I,  in  my  clumsy  attempt  to  imitate  him,  make 
use  of  a  single  argument  which  does  not  lie, 
developed  or  undeveloped,  in  the  Common  Sense 
of  every  clown ;  in  that  human  Reason  of  his, 
which  is  part  of  God's  image  in  him,  and  in 
every  man  ?  And  has  not  my  complaint  against 
Mr.  Windrush's  school  been,  that  they  will  not 
do  this ;  that  they  will  not  accept  the  ground 
which  is  common  to  men  as  men,  but  disregard 
that  part  of  the '  Vox  Populi '  which  is  truly '  Vox 
Dei,'  for  that  which  is  '  Vox  Diaboli' — for  private 
sentiments,  fancies,  and  aspirations ;  and  so  cast- 
ing away  the  common  sense  of  mankind,  build 
up  each  man,  on  the  pin's  point  of  his  own 
private  judgment,  his  own  inverted  pyramid  ?" 

"  But  are  you  not  asking  me  to  do  just  the 
same,  when  you  propose  to  me  to  start  as  a 
Scientific  Dialectician  ?" 

"Why,   what   are  Dialectics,  or   any   other 


PHAETHON.  87 

scientific  method,  but  conscious  Common  Sense  ? 
And  what  is  common  sense,  but  unconscious 
scientific  method  ?  Every  man  is  a  dialectician, 
be  he  scholar  or  boor,  in  as  far  as  he  tries  to  use 
no  words  which  he  does  not  understand,  and  to 
sift  his  own  thoughts,  and  his  expressions  of 
them,  by  that  reason  which  is  at  once  common 
to  men,  and  independent  of  them. 

"As  M.  Jourdain  talked  prose  all  his  life 
without  knowing  it.  Well  ...  I  prefer  the 
unconscious  method.  I  have  as  little  faith  as 
Mr.  Carlyle  would  have  in  saying, '  Go  to,  let  us 
make' — an  induction  about  words,  or  anything 
else.  It  seems  to  me  no  very  hopeful  method  of 
finding  out  facts  as  they  are/ 

"  Certainly ;  provided  you  mean  any  particular 
induction,  and  not  a  general  inductive  and 
severely-inquiring  habit  of  mind ;  that  very  6  Go 
to'  being  a  fair  sign  that  you  have  settled 
beforehand  what  the  induction  shall  be ;  in  plain 
English,  that  you  have  come  to  your  conclusion 
already,  and  are  now  looking  about  for  facts  to 
prove  it.  But  is  it  any  wiser  to  say,  '  Go  to, 
I  will  be  conscious  of  being  unconscious  of  being 
conscious  of  my  own  forms  of  thought?'  For 
that  is  what  you  do  say,  when,  having  read  Plato, 
and  knowing  his  method,  and  its  coincidence 


88  PHAETHON. 

with  Common  Sense,  you  determine  to  ignore  it 
on  common-sense  questions." 

"  But  why  not  ignore  it,  if  mother-wit  does 
as  well?" 

"Because  you  cannot  ignore  it.  You  have 
learnt  it  more  or  less,  and  cannot  forget  it,  try  as 
you  will,  and  must  either  follow  it,  or  break  it 
and  talk  nonsense.  And  moreover,  you  ought 
not  to  ignore  it.  For  it  seems  to  me,  that  you 
were  sent  to  Cambridge  by  One  greater  than 
your  parents,  in  order  that  you  might  learn  it, 
and  bring  it  home  hither  for  the  use  of  the 
M.  Jourdains  round  you  here,  who  have  no 
doubt  been  talking  prose  all  their  life,  but  may 
have  been  also  talking  it  very  badly." 

"  You  speak  riddles." 

"My  dear  fellow,  may  not  a  man  employ 
Reason,  or  any  other  common  human  faculty, 
all  his. life,  and  yet  employ,  them  very  clumsily 
and  defectively?"  • 

"  I  should  say  so,  from  the  gross  amount  of 
human  unwisdom." 

"  And  that,  in  the  case  of  uneducated  per- 
sons, happens  because  they  are  not  conscious 
of  those  faculties,  or  of  their  right  laws,  but 
use  them  blindly  and  capriciously,  by  fits  and 
starts,  talking  sense  on  one  point,  and  nonsense 
on  another." 


PHAETHON.  89 

"  Too  true,  Heaven  knows." 

"  But  the  educated  man,  if  education  mean 
anything,  is  the  man  who  has  become  conscious 
of  those  common  human  faculties  and  their  laws, 
and  has  learnt  to  use  them  continuously  and  ac- 
curately, on  all  matters  alike." 

"  True,  0  Socraticule  !" 

"  Then  is  it  not  his  especial  business  to  teach 
the  right  use  of  them  to  the  less  educated  ? — 
unless  you  agree  with  the  old  Sophists,  that  the 
purpose  of  education  is  to  enable  us  to  deceive 
or  coerce  the  uneducated  for  our  own  aggran- 
dizement." 

"  I  am  therefore,  it  seems,  to  get  up  Platonic 
Dialectics  simply  in  order  to  teach  my  plough- 
men to  use  their  Common  Sense  ?" 

"  Exactly  so.  Teach  yourself  first,  and  every 
one  around  you  afterwards,  not  the  doctrines, 
nor  the  formulae — though  he  had  none — but  the 
habit  of  mind  which  Socrates  tried  in  vain  to 
teach  the  Athenian  youth.  Teach  them  to  face 
all  questions  patiently  and  fearlessly :  to  begin 
always  by  asking  every  word,  great  or  small, 
from  '  Predestination'  to  '  Protection/  what  it 
really  means.  Teach  them  that  '  By  your  words 
you  shall  be  justified,  and  by  your  words  you 
shall  be  condemned/  is  no  barren  pulpit-text, 


90  PHAETHON. 

but  a  tremendous  practical  law  for  every  day, 
and  for  every  matter.  Teach  them  to  be  sure 
that  man  can  find  out  truth,  because  God  his 
Father  and  Archetype  will  show  it  to  those  who 
hunger  after  it.  Try  to  make  them  see  clearly 
the  Divine  truths  which  are  implied,  not  only  in 
their  creeds,  but  in  their  simplest  household 
words;  and " 

"  And  fail  as  Socrates  failed,  or  rather  worse ; 
for  he  did  teach  himself:  but  I  shall  not  even  . 
do  that." 

"  Do  not  despair  in  haste.  In  the  first  place, 
I  deny  that  Socrates  taught  himself,  for  I  be- 
lieve that  One  taught  him,  who  has  promised  to 
teach  every  man  who  desires  wisdom ;  and  in 
the  next  place  I  have  no  fear  but  that  the  sound 
practical  intellect  which  That  Same  One  has  be- 
stowed on  the  Englishman,  will  give  you  a  far 
better  auditory  in  any  harvest  field,  than  Soc- 
rates could  find  among  the  mercurial  Athenians 
of  a  fallen  age." 

"  Well,  that  is,  at  all  events,  a  comfort  for 
poor  me.  I  will  really  take  to  my  Plato  again, 
till  the  hunting  begins." 

"And  even  then,  you  know,  you  don't  keep 
two  packs ;  so  you  will  have  three  days  out  of 
the  six  wherein  to  study  him." 


PHAETHON.  91 

- 

"  Four,  you  mean, — for  I  have  long  given  up 
reading  Sunday  books  on  Sunday." 

"  Then  read  your  Bible  and  Prayer-book ;  or 
even  borrow  some  of  Lady  Jane's  devotional 
treatises ;  and  try,  after  you  have  translated  the 
latter  into  plain  English,  to  make  out  what  they 
one  and  all  really  do  mean,  by  the  light  which 
old  Socrates  has  given  you  during  the  week. 
You  will  find  them  wiser  than  you  fancy,  and 
simpler  also." 

"  So  be  it,  my  dear  Soul-doctor.  Here  come 
Lewis  and  the  luncheon." 

And  so  ended  our  conversation. 


THE  END. 


PUBLISHED   BY   H.    HOOKER, 

S.  W.  CORNER  EIGHTH  AND  CHESTNUT, 

Any  of  these  Books  supplied  for  Cash— Postage  paid  by 
the  Publisher. 


I. 

THE  ELEMENTS  OF  CHRISTIAN  SCIENCE.  A  Treatise 
upon  Moral  Philosophy  and  Practice.  By  William  Adams, 
S.  T.  P.,  Presbyter  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church  in 
the  Diocese  of  Wisconsin.  $1  50. 

II. 

THE  DOCTRINE  OF  THE   INCARNATION  of  our  Lord 
Jesus  Christ,  in  relation  to  Mankind  and  to  the  Church.  By 
Archdeacon  Wilberforce.    $1. 
III. 

SERMONS  on  the  New  Birth  of  Man's  Nature.  By  Arch- 
deacon Wilberforce.  8vo.  $1  25. 

IV. 

DOCTRINE  OF  THE  HOLY  EUCHARIST.  By  Archdeacon 
Wilberforce.  $125. 

V. 

THE  DOCTRINE  OF  HOLY  BAPTISM.  By  Archdeacon 
Wilberforce.  75  cents. 

VI. 

THEOPHILUS  AMERICANUS;  Or,  Instruction  for  the 
Young  Student  Concerning  the  Church,  and  the  American 
Branch  of  it.  By  Charles  Wordsworth,  D.  D.,  Canon  of 
Westminster.  Edited  by  Hugh  Davey  Evans,  LL.  D.  2d 
edition,  revised  and  corrected.  $1  50. 

VII. 

ELEMENTS  OF  INSTRUCTION  concerning  the  Church,  for 
the  use  of  Young  Persons,  chiefly  from  the  fifth  edition  of 
"  Theophilus  Anglicanus."  Edited  and  enlarged  by  Hugh 
Davey  Evans.  75  cents. 


2  CHURCH  BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  H.  HOOKER. 

VIII. 

SAYINGS  OF  THE  GREAT  FORTY  DAYS  between  the 
Resurrection  and  the  Ascension,  regarded  as  the  outline  of 
the  Kingdom  of  God.  In  Five  Discourses,  with  an  Examina- 
tion of  Mr.  Newman's  Theory  of  Developments.  By  George 
Moberly,  D.  C.  L.,  Head  Master  Winchester  College.  75 
cents. 

IX. 

PRACTICAL  RELIGION.  Exemplified  by  Letters  and  Pas- 
sages from  the  Life  of  the  late  Rev.  Robert  Anderson.  By 
the  Hon.  Mrs.  Anderson.  75  cents. 

X. 

THE  STAR  OF  THE  WISE  MEN.  Being  a  Commentary 
of  the  second  chapter  of  St.  Matthew.  By  Richard  Chenevix 
Trench,  B.  D.  37  cents. 

XI. 

IIARDWICK'S  HISTORY  OF   THE   XXXIX  ARTICLES 
OF  THE  CHURCH  OF  ENGLAND.    8vo.,  $1  75. 

XII. 

REV.  ERSKINE  NEALE'S  RICHES  THAT  BRING  NO 
SORROW. 

XIII. 

SERMONS  by  Rev.  Philip  W.  Alston,  with  a  Memoir,  by  Rt. 
Rev.  James  H.  Otey,  D.  D.    One  vol.  8vo.,  price  $2. 

XIV. 

THE  PRIVATE  PRAYER  BOOK.  Being  a  Collection  of 
Devotions  for  Daily  and  Hourly  use.  Compiled  from  Holy 
Scriptures  and  Godly  Writings.  By  Rev.  William  II.  Oden- 
heimer.  50  cents. 

XV. 

HYMNS  FOR  LITTLE  CHILDREN.  By  the  Author  of  the 
"Lord  of  the  Forest,"  "Verses  for  Holy  Seasons,"  &c. 

XVI. 

FIRST  PRINCIPLES  OF  THE  DOCTRINE  OF  CHRIST. 
By  M.  P.  Parks,  of  Trinity  Church,  New  York.  50  cents. 

XVII. 

A  GUIDE  TO  CONFIRMATION.  By  the  Rev.  Stephen  II. 
Tyng,  D.  D.  A  new  edition. 


CHURCH  BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  H.  HOOKER.  3 

XVIII. 

WARNINGS  OF  THE  HOLY  WEEK.  Being  a  Course  of 
Parochial  Lectures  for  the  Week  before  Easter  and  the 
Easter  Festivals.  By  Rev.  Wm.  Adams,  M.  A.,  Author  of 
"  Old  Man's  Home,"  &c.  37  cents. 

XIX. 

THE  LIFE,  and  a  Selection  from  the  Letters  of  the  late  Rev. 
Henry  Venn,  M.  A.  By  the  late  Rev.  John  Venn.  $1. 

XX. 
THE  LAST  ENEMY  CONQUERING  AND  CONQUERED. 

By  Bishop  Burgess,  of  the  Diocese  of  Maine.    75  cents. 

XXI. 

NAOMI,  OR  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  JERUSALEM.  By 
Mrs.  Webb.  From  tfce  ninth  London  edition.  75  cents. 


NOTICES  OF  THE  PRESS. 

THE  BOY  TRAINED  TO  BE  A  CLERGYMAN.    By  the 

Rev.  J.  N.  Norton.    38  cents. 

The  Register  says — "A  capital  little  book,  containing  a  great 
deal  that  is  good,  and  earnest,  and  true,  well-timed,  and  hap- 
pily spoken." 

Louisville  Journal. 

"  A  charming  book.  It  is  written  in  that  plain,  transparent, 
good  old  English  style  for  which  the  accomplished  author  is 
so  distinguished.  It  is  remarkable  and  refreshing  in  these 
days,  when  there  is  so  much  straining  after  effect,  and  such 
effort  to  startle  the  reader  with  new  and  surprising  incidents, 
to  find  a  book  which  will  tell  a  story  so  naturally  and  so 
simply.  The  book  will  be  read  by  every  boy  who  can  read  at 
all ;  and  it  is  well  calculated  to  strengthen  that  moral  courage 
which  is  the  only  true  heroism,  and  in  which  so  many  are 
lamentably  deficient.  But  there  is  a  special  lesson  in  this  little 
book  to  parents,  showing  them,  by  what  has  been  done,  how 
most  effectually  to  meet  the  great  want  of  the  Church  in  this 
age  and  country,  an  adequate  supply  of  efficient  and  well- 
trained  ministers  of  the  gospel." 


4  CIIURCII  BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  II.  HOOKER. 

Protestant  Churchman. 

"On  the  basis  of  natural  equalities  of  mind  and  heart  fitted 
for  usefulness  in  the  ministry,  the  author  inculcates  the  pro- 
priety of  training  up  those*  who  exhibit  these  characteristics, 
with  a  view  to  the  sacred  profession.  Not  this  only,  but  he 
urges  that  parents  need  not  wait  for  the  manifestation  of  any 
decided  preference,  and  that  the  preference  may  be  created  by 
an  early  direction  of  the  mind  and  heart.  The  story  is  written 
with  attractive  simplicity,  and  the  argument  developed  with 
skill." 

Banner  of  the  Cross. 

"We  have  read  this  admirable  little  book  with  much  in- 
terest. It  is  one  which  pious  parents  will  delight  to  put  into 
the  hands  of  sons,  whom  they  wish  to  devote  themselves  to  the 
sacred  ministry." 

Calendar. 

"  This  is  just  the  book  for  every  Christian  parent  to  read, 
and  by  its  interest  and  instruction,  will  well  repay  the  cost 
of  time.  The  story  is  told  in  a  discriminating  style,  dropping 
gems  of  thought  as  it  proceeds,  in  the  mind  of  the  reader. 
We  hope  parents  will  secure  the  book,  and  be  induced,  after 

Rrayer  and  reflection,  to  prepare  and  present  one  of  their  sons 
>r  the  service  of  God  in  his  sacred  ministry.     The  subject  is 
altogether  a  new  one  for  the  basis  of  a  tale,  but  the  author 
evinces  skill,  as  well  as  Christian  zeal." 

Church  Journal. 

"  The  book  is  an  excellent  one,  and  is  evidently  largely 
mingled  up  with  the  element  of  personal  reminiscence ;  how 
far,  we  cannot  tell ;  but  enough  to  give  the  real  interest  of 
biography  to  the  whole.  *  *  *  Mr.  Norton  leaves  us  with  his 
hero  looking  forward  to  the  struggles  of  a  missionary  at  the 
West,  where,  we  hope,  to  renew  our  acquaintance  with  him 
soon,  in  an  additional  volume." 

The  Churchman. 

"As  we  hope  that  some,  nay,  many  of  our  little  readers 
will  one  day  think  it  their  duty  to  become  clergymen,  we  re- 
commend this  pleasant  and  good  little  book  to  them,  not  only 
because  it  may  help  them  to  resolve  on  entering  that  holy  call- 
ing, but  also  teach  them  how  they  ought  to  live  and  behave,  if 
they  would  be  either  fit  for  the  work,  or  useful  and  happy  in 
it." 


RETURN  TO  the  circulation  desk  ot  any 
University  of  California  Library 

or  to  the 

NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
Bldg.  400,  Richmond  Field  Station 
University  of  California 
Richmond,  CA  94804-4698 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

•  2-month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling 
(510)642-6753 

•  1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringin< 
books  to  NRLF 

•  Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4 
days  prior  to  due  date. 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


OUT  2  4  1996 


12,000(11/95) 


M185449 


9.5^ 
K^" 

,;XJU 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


PUBLISHED    BY    IT.    HOOKER, 

S.  W.  CORNER  OF  EIGHl'H  AND  CHESTNUT, 


HULSEAN  LECTTTRES  for  18k>5—  1846.     T)y  1'iclinr-" 

nf     Pil 

••inloin.      7 

WORKS  OF  THE  REV.  HENi?T  BLUNT,  A.  M.f 

. 

• 


• 
PAMPHLETS  FOR  THE  PEOPLE,   ill 

!>i.     25 

and 

Tii«' 

the  . 
The 

to   J'uiitit!)   iiitul- 


raa 


